Secrets
by Loremonger
Summary: The North Pole can be harsh to teens who don't fall in line. Malik is a promising waterbender whose talents are never good enough for his cruel father. Sura wanders the Earth Kingdom, banished from the tribe for a heinous crime. Weak and adrift, her powers dwindle day by day. Though oceans lie between them, only together can they hope to become who they were born to be.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Preface: This story takes place seven centuries before the events of Avatar: The Last Airbender.

Many years have passed since Kya's disappearance, but to the proud people of the North Pole the loss of the avatar remains particularly raw. Though the other nations now look to the Earth Kingdom for signs of the avatar's rebirth, the proud Northerners clutch tight to the old traditions, patient in the hope that Kya will someday return home.

Tradition can be beautiful. But for some, it can be a terrible struggle as well. This is the tale of one such struggle.

* * *

Chapter I

* * *

Sura hid and waited for the bandits to drown themselves into a drunken sleep. She figured them for easy enough prey, considering the number of jugs they'd polished off before bed. It should have been simple; move quietly, grab the food, get out. But theft was still theft, even if the men she stole from were thieves themselves, and the promise of a full stomach did little to quell her guilt.

Perhaps that's why she'd made such a botch of the whole thing. Her palms had been slick with sweat, so when she'd reached for the lid of the largest cast iron pot, it had slipped. The resulting clangor had roused the whole camp before she could gather more than a fistful of overdone rice.

They had chased her deep into the forest. Her pace was quickened by their enraged shouts and catcalls, vivid promises of the things they'd do to her when they'd caught her. Sura stuffed her face with the rice she'd stolen and fled deeper into the forest. She ran for what felt like hours, not knowing how far she'd gone, nor how close behind the bandits might be.

Though the bandits never found her, the rain certainly did. The days that followed brought ceaseless storms against which she had little shelter. It seemed fair punishment for having taken such a stupid risk. Massive oakpines grew in all directions, tall and bulbous trees with limbs and branches that twined together like coils of rope. The oakpines grew without concern for proximity, leaving little room for anything else. She had yet to come across an open meadow, or even a creek. Above the mighty trunks spanned a canvas of green, leaves and branches all webbed up in an impenetrable canopy. It blotted out Sura's sense of bearing. The storm blotted out the sun by day, and by night she saw no stars.

Sleep seldom came. The woods seemed to delight in rousing her with trill birdsong and the distant howling of hungry beasts. On the second day she came across a bunching of vibrant blue berries upon a thorny red vine. Desperate from hunger, she'd stuffed her mouth with two handfuls, 'til her face and hands were streaked with purple juices.

Her desperation nearly did her in. The berries must have been poisonous. A weak poison, lucikly, not that it mattered at the time. She spent the rest of the night and all the next day vomiting.

She finally found decent refuge in the tuck of a lightning-gutted oakpine. Rooted snugly amidst the charred hollow, Sura found herself in no hurry to leave. Her faded blue robes were crusty with mud, her throat still pained her from all of the heaving, and she could feel the onset of fever.

She glanced over the smoldering peat mound toward her cat owl. Oki purred as he preened himself, plucking a wayward feather from under his white wing. A pink button nose dotted the center of his snowy face. _Strange that he hasn't departed yet,_ she thought. He loved to fly off without warning, only to come back hours later with gifts of dead mouse, dead gilacorn, perhaps a limp lizard or two. Though grateful, Sura couldn't stomach his trappings, not after the berries, or the threat of looming fever.

Every day the sky raged and wept. Sura clutched at the phial on her necklace. She told herself to ignore the rain, but a drencher like this was not something to be ignored, least of all to a bender. It was akin to asking a drummer to ignore the rhythm. Every torturous drop added to the discordant thrum, a million miserable reminders of the gifts she'd once had, gifts she'd squandered and lost.

Gaps in the rain would appear from time to time, and they allowed her to peek her head out without soaking her hair. Storms back at home could be severe, but they'd never been like this. Snow and sleet could be cold and cruel, yes, but she'd known them her whole life. Every waterbender began with snow; it was soft and forgiving, stiff and malleable, far easier to handle than liquid.

Rain was different; tempestuous, bestial, prone to sudden change. An uncommon sight in the North, rain was rebellious, lacking cohesion or unity, as vexing to a budding waterbender as sand to a greenhorn earthbender.

Her first taste of such weather came early in her exile. It had been no problem at the time. Sura simply redirected the downpour as though a tilted pane of glass were floating overhead. But that was back when her bending talents were still worth a crumb, back before she'd spent a year shuffling south, bouncing from village to village, shunned and ignored.

She woke each day with less and less energy. Was this her fifth day under the tree, or the sixth? She didn't know. She couldn't even say what time of year it was—spring perhaps, maybe early summer. The recent months had dreared into one. She found herself napping more often than she used to, for no other reason than to pass the time. Where else could she go? Who could she turn to?

She kicked out the smoldering peat pile with her heel. _Not enough for tonight,_ she realized. If she wanted to keep warm, she'd need to scrounge for more, and finding dry peat moss after this much rain was not going to be easy. The thought exhausted her. A meager whimper fell from her chapped lips.

Sura dwindled to her knees, fell to one side, and curled into a fragile ball. Oki hopped over and found a cozy spot between her tummy and knees. Sura hooked an arm around him and tucked her nose into his musty fur. It was good to smell something familiar. When the rains stopped the forest floor would ripen with the damp smell of pine needles and goldenmoss; overwhelming sounds and smells compared to the nothingness of the northern tundras. _Add it to the list,_ she told herself. It was all different; the food, the people, the clothes, the smells. And this warm rain… even the weather was wrong.

Sura liked to blame the rain for her loss of talent. It wasn't true, of course. Whatever the actual cause, her skills had dwindled to such a pathetic point that she could barely ripple the surface of a rain puddle.

Lots of things could cause bending interference. So many, in fact, that if she found herself back at the old archives she wouldn't even know where to begin. It was too broad of a question for her to suss out on her own, and the one man who could get to the root of her problem was a thousand leagues away.

Sura could still see her bending master standing on the misty dock, sorrow etched into every line of his leathery face. _I should have confided in him,_ she lamented. _He would have understood why I had to do it._

Sura lay her head upon the crook of her elbow. She closed her eyes, wincing every now and then at a tightening in her gut. The water she'd guzzled had only worsened her hunger pangs. She'd need to forage for something soon, before fever took hold of her… but she was already so tired. She offered herself a compromise. She promised that she'd take only a moment's nap; a brief one, half hour at most, just enough time to dream of home.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II

* * *

Malik watched his breath hang in the air like a ragged cloud. Today was particularly frigid, but beneath his furs he was sweltering. He pressed his back to the nearest tree and listened. He thought he heard the soft crackle of moccasins upon ice, but when he risked a glance toward the sound he saw no one. Sound could play devious tricks out here, bounding along the lake's surface for miles on end. Anik would have considered that when picking this spot for the devious testing ground. The frozen grove, Anik liked to call it.

Malik craned his neck and looked for hints of ambush from above. The icy canopy shone with a golden glow, every icebranch and weeping leaf filled with a brilliance that was almost blinding. _He'll try to use that to his advantage_. Twice already Sifu Anik had accosted him, knocking Malik's feet out from under him and then vanishing back into the frozen grove without any sign he'd been there at all.

Malik was wary of stepping too close to the trees. His sifu could be encased within any of them, holding his breath within a thick frozen trunk for minutes on end, waiting for his hapless student to wander into the trap. Whatever his method, when Anik struck, it would be sudden and silent. He held his breath, listening. Even the slightest noise could mean the difference between…

 _There it is again_. Malik peeled away from the nearest tree and peered upward. A few flecks of loosened snow wafted in the breeze. Anik was up there somewhere.

Malik would have to move fast. Sifu Anik was surely positioning for a third and final ambush. Three strikes was always his limit, three chances to prove you'd learned something. Malik pressed his palms together and raised them up past his left shoulder before bringing them back down in a fierce arc.

The topmost branches of the frozen tree cracked like a chandelier buckling under its excess. Blades of ice rained down to shatter upon the lake's glassy surface. Malik ignored the debris, careful for a glimpse of sealskin coat, a loose moccasin, anything. Distracted as he was, he did not notice the gloved hand rising up from the lake beneath him until it had been too late.

Malik fell hard, the ice jamming up under his chin. His teeth rang like brass bells in his head. He tasted blood. Pushing himself up, Malik spat out a red loogie. When he looked down at the frozen surface, he yelped out in sheer surprise.

Anik grinned up at him from beneath the ice. Bubbles began to fulminate from the corners of his mouth. The frozen surface of the lake began to waste away like salt to frost. "Mind all of your surroundings," he chided, once he'd emerged. He reached out with both arms, as if to give a big hug.

Whips of thin water lashed around Malik's legs and arms. He tried to struggle against them, but it was useless. Anik's control would not be questioned. The hole beneath his feet now gaped wide as a hungry whalerus, eager to devour. There was a shock of cold, and then he was in the water, sinking like a stone. He reached up past his head, but the surface of the lake had already sealed shut. Malik began to sink away from the gray light, down to the cold, calm dark.

He woke up next to a roaring campfire. Dusk had fallen, and the sapphire sky was overflowing with stars. Malik curled himself up into a knot and tugged himself tight within his parka. Someone had been considerate enough to pull the water from his clothes, but a cruel chill still harbored in his chest. It took the better half of an hour before the shivers worked themselves out.

He hoisted himself up to a sitting position and rubbed at the sore spot under his arm. His classmates sat in a wide arc on the far end of the fire, split off into cliques of twos and threes. Malik counted their flamelit faces. Like himself, they were all cradling some form of wound. He counted thirteen; a little under half the class.

Malik was surprised at their number. While his master had never been one to hold back on his lessons, today's training had been especially aggressive. As per usual, Sifu Anik had sent home those who had been skilled or lucky enough to make it through with only minor scrapes and bruises. Those with more serious injuries—sprains, torn muscles, the occasional broken bone—they would have to tough out their wounds and wait for his daughter Luava. Most of the class was honest and straightforward when seeking the relief of her healing arts. Invariably though, there was at least one horny chump who stuck around simply to feel her tender touch.

She'd always had that effect on other boys. Even Malik could see why. Her eyes were blue as a springtime sea. Tall and lithe, she liked to wear her hair in a cute bob, save for the pair of beaded tassels that hung just above the chinline. Truly her father's daughter, Luava was already shaping up to be the water tribe's most talented acolyte healer. Soon enough she'd be fielding an endless stream of suitors begging her to wear their necklace.

He spotted her through the flames. She was leaning in over a pair of bloody-nosed students, her hands hovering over their faces, each in turn. It made Malik shiver, though he knew he wasn't cold. No, he'd always felt a tingle up his spine when he watched her at work. Her skill, her tenderness, these things were soothing to witness.

"Well, well. And here I thought you weren't into girls."

Heat rushed into Malik's face. He shifted his gaze quickly away from Luava, but that only made him look more guilty. The blood was already in the water, and Unnaq could smell it.

"I knew it. You _are_ sweet on her, aren'tcha?" Unnaq curled his upper lip to reveal a gaptooth sneer. "Like she'd ever date a seal pup like you." He gestured with a limp wrist as he hobbled on his remaining good foot. His other leg dragged behind, cutting a shallow channel through the pebbled beach. Luava had done a good job with the ankle splint; the whale's jawbone would keep the broken bone snug and steady.

Unnaq lurched past Malik's campfire toward his ride home. The palanquin was serviced by a quartet of men who bore the gaudy azure colors of Unnaq's family crest. They knelt in unison at the young master's approach, an awkward task considering the skating blades they wore on the soles their sandals. The palanquin tilted to one side as Unnaq hefted himself inside. He tugged open a hatch window and stuck his head out. "I asked her to stop by my place later," he said, shouting. "Me and her, all alone. Dream about _that,_ seal pup."

From within the bejeweled box came the impatient ringing of a brass bell. The four servants rose in unison. Scraping the metal blades upon the soles of their sandals, the quartet was soon moving at tremendous speeds across the frozen lake.

Unnaq couldn't be more wrong. Malik wasn't interested in being _with_ Luava. His needs went deeper than that; shameful truths that he had to keep to himself. His silence was his cradle, it kept him safe. Silence was the key to a normal life.

His favorite dreams far from normal. Like the ones when he lived a day in Luava's skin. He got to wear the same sleek clothes, do his hair up in the same cute bob… waltzing through the capital, shameless and proud.

In those dreams he undressed his life's lies. He could be fearless. Who was there to be afraid of? Father, for all his overbearing control, could not control Malik's dreams.

How wondrous were those dreams; gossiping with the girls, chatting about everything and anything; dodging the flirtatious boys that hid around each corner; ambivalence toward the Gentlemen who were stealing glances.

Malik would like to say that he didn't crave such attention, even knowing that Luava hated it. He couldn't help it though. he loved feeling this way. The dreams were always amazing, and they felt amazing because they felt so right. There was no shame in dream. Shame always returned with the dawn.

"Well, hello." A hand cupped hold of Malik's shoulder. As Luava leaned down she she scooped up a single log from the pile and chucked it into the dwindling fire where it sent up a belch of sparks.

"I see you're in no hurry," Malik said.

Luava drew up beside him and squatted, balancing on her haunches. "Triage, my friend. I've noticed that Dad likes to take it easy on you." She undid the laces on her knee-high boots. "Besides, he doesn't usually leave me with this many patients. Rare mood today, I guess. Turned out bad for you guys."

"I'd hate to see his normal mood, then." Malik tugged a lock of dark hair from his eyes and tucked it back into his top knot. "Today seemed as bad as any other. But you'd know him best." He rubbed at the sore spot on his jaw.

Luava popped open a shutter on her night lamp and held it between them. "Hush. Let me see what he did this time."

She stared at the sides of his face and at the underside of his chin, her eyebrows scrunched in concentration. "Shouldn't take much," she mumbled, mostly to herself. Luava placed the lamp by her feet. Biting the tip of her mitt, she tugged her right hand free. She unstoppered the flask on her belt and wafted out enough water to coat her upraised palm like a fingerless glove. Her lips moved in silent prayer. An opalescent nimbus of blue light soon radiated from her liquid gloves.

Luava dragged her fingers across the sorest spots; over the sharp cheekbones, across the chin, under the jaw. He melted into her touch, so soft that it set his scalp tingling. Her skills disarmed him. They always did. He rubbed his hands together and wondered if his touch could ever be half as tender.

The ephemeral glow faded from her fingertips. Malik wiggled his jaw from side to side. "Where would I be without you?"

"Lock-jawed and hungry," Luava said. With a whip of her fingers the water flew free. It did not fall, but hung in the air at arms length, like a floating, coagulant snake. She unhooked her hip flask and swept it through the air from right to left, scooping up the weightless water in a single motion. "You owe me lunch," she said, as an afterthought.

Malik stuck out his tongue. "That's so not fair. When am I ever gonna get a chance to save your butt, for a change?"

"As if I'd even have the time to _get_ into trouble." Luava turned toward the capital. She looked tired. "City's not getting smaller. Every day there are more and more people seeking a healer's help. Too many, in fact, and not enough of us to go around." Her attention went back to her laces until they were undone. She plopped down in front of Malik and stuck the pads of her boots in his face. "You wouldn't want to taste my cooking, anyway."

He gripped the heels and held tight as she fought to liberate her her feet. She quickly tamped them down upon the cold round stones and watched the steam rise from between her wiggling toes. "This is the first real break I've had today," she said. "I helped a mother bring her newborn into the world. I treated a whole whaler crew for gum rot. An elder needed comforting before his journey past the Boreal Veil, and that was all just this afternoon." Luava wilted a bit. She craned her head toward the sky and stared up at the stars. "There's still Unnaq's broken ankle. And after _that,_ I'm due back at the hospice. Hooray, me."

"Unnaq?" Malik licked his lips and made a wet puckering sound. " Ooh la la. He was bragging about how he'd coaxed you back to his place, you know."

"Yeah? Well he's never been good at keeping his big mouth shut," Luava replied. "And it's not for the reason you think."

"Well, that goes without saying."

"Malik!" She gave a playful kick to his shin. "Don't be mean. He may be a bit bit rough around the edges, but…"

"Rough around the edges? He's a fat bully—AND he's the worst bender I've ever seen. I don't know why he doesn't just drop out, find a bending teacher more suited to his size."

Luava shook her head. Her gaze lowered from the stars down toward the fire's orange embers. "You think Unnaq wants to be in a class like this?" she asked. "There are other bending masters far more linen than my Dad, but you already knew that. Unnaq's only here because of his father. Bragging rights, you see. Some fathers think it's a point of pride to train their kids under the harshest bender in the tribe. Sound familiar?"

He watched a lick of flame dance upon the burning log. She had him there, and she knew it. "Yeah," he admitted. "I guess it does."

"I thought it might."

Malik was suddenly desperate to change the subject. "Seriously though, I don't know how you keep up. You're always out there, working, working, working. Where d'you store all that energy?"

"My love handles." Luava pinched at her sides.

Malik receded his chin. "Love handles, right."

"It's no big secret," Luava said. "I just wake up every day with the knowledge that I'll meet obstinance. Acceptance helps me focus. For instance, I like to know when Dad's training lessons are gonna keep me up late, like tonight for example. I'll ask him what the day's training will entail. Usually he ignores me, figuring I'd snitch." She leaned in close, as if to tell a secret. "Today he didn't."

Malik sat up straight. None of Anik's students knew much about him or the private life he lived outside of class. Curiosity gnawed at him. "What'd he say?"

Luava leapt to her feet and stiffened her back straight as a board. She clasped her arms behind her back, leaned forward until her face was looming over his. She spoke in a rigid growl. "Today they will be lessoned in failure. I will begin by exhausting their inner chi through a rigorous streaming regimen. Once their energy has been sapped, I will submit them to exhaustion. After exhaustion, defeat." The imitation of her father was uncanny.

Malik pulled his mitts away from the fire and tucked them beneath his armpits. He ignored the dull pain under his arm. "It's not meant to be fair," he replied, in a crude imitation of his own. "But through the manner of their failure, I'll teach them a deal more about themselves than any mere exercise!"

"Good imitation of Dad," she giggled. "Don't let him hear that."

Malik joined her in giggling, and soon enough the giggles had boiled over into full-bore laughter. The dull ache in Malik's side grew sharper with each intake of air. _Ignore it,_ he told himself. It was rare enough when he could say he was happy. and when he was with Luava he was happy. He wasn't going to let a little pain get in the way of that.

She squinted one eye at him. "You all right? Did I miss a spot?"

"No." He kicked at a pale blue pebble with his moccasin. "I'm fine."

"Liar," she said, and clapped him on either shoulder.

"Ow!" He winced.

Luava crossed her arms. "Show me."

Malik shirked his parka, wincing as he did so. He lifted his arm to show her the bruise. No words were exchanged as she inspected the red-and-black splotch that ran down the side of his chest. It was obvious the bruise troubled her.

"This isn't from today," she said, the mirth gone from her eyes.

Malik did not reply. What was there to say? There was no point in lying. What could he tell her that hadn't already been said a hundred times before? By now she would have heard it all. It was pointless to dwell on the unchangeable. That would only renew the hurt.

Luava drew him into a long hug. "Oh, Malik."

He buried his face in the fur of her collar and closed his eyes. By now the other students had departed, and the frozen shoreline held a reverent silence. The log upon the fire started to hiss. A crisp cold wind blew through her hair, through his. For a brief moment he let her shoulder blot out the rest of the world.

She could have siphoned away the pain. With a flick of her wrist, Luava could dismiss it all. The thought was tempting, but any relief she provided would be temporary; as soon as Malik arrived home it would all be undone. Father always demanded that he disrobe after each bending class, so that he might witness firsthand the damage Sifu Anik's lessons had dealt. When he was not pleased with the number of bruises on display, Father would add a few of his own.

"Mark each one," he'd say, when he was satisfied. "A man endures his pains, boy. Remember that, since you seem so keen to forget."

Reminders they had become. Thanks to Father, or perhaps in spite of him, Malik learned instead to view his welts as something more. They'd become a symbol, a superficial affront to the truth that lay beneath his skin, far beyond the reach of mere bruises.

He drew back gently from Luava's embrace. His attention turned north, past the lake and over the distant mountains. The sky was shrouded in a curtain of shifting emeralds and pinks and reds. The colors had only grown more vibrant with the new moon approaching. "So peaceful," Malik mumbled.

He saw Luava's face and knew she understood. Her own mother had crossed over the boreal veil when she was still a small child, and she had no memory of her. For Malik, the pain was closer at hand. Some nights he thought he could hear her whisper to him from beyond the boreal veil, encouraging him to trudge onward. If not for his own sake, then at least for his sister's.

Luava leaned in and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. Malik smiled. He would never get tired of her unrequited affection. How could he? If it hadn't been for her playful flirting, he might have never found the courage to confide in her at all. They'd known each other longer than either of them could remember. She'd earned the right to know the truth of what was going on inside of him. Not just the truth of his feelings for her, either, but all of it, everything that he'd bottled up, everything he'd ever wanted to say since he'd learned the difference between girls and boys, and found that he was something else. Something different.

They sat there a while, huddled together amongst the frozen desolation. The boreal veil continued to shift, vibrant greens and purples melting into deeper shades of indigo and violet. Every few seconds A falling star would streak overhead.

A voice from beyond the firelight shattered the fragile reverie. "Aren't you needed elsewhere?" it asked.

Malik's smile curdled. He stood and gave the perfunctory bow. _How long had he been standing there? Was he eavesdropping on us?_ He was almost tempted to demand some answers, but resisted the impulse.

Luava did not. "You said you'd stop sneaking up on us," she said. She dusted the grit from her furs and walked barefoot toward her boots. "And I earned a break, thank you very much. After all the hurt you dished out today, I should start charging a fee."

"If your work displeases you, say the word and I'll send for someone else." Sifu Anik stepped into the firelight, the creases of his thin face etched in shadow. "Though I don't think either of you would want that. And I was not sneaking. Is it my fault that your ears were not open?"

"Oh no, not that again." Luava wheeled on her father, hands on her hips. "I'm not one of your students."

Malik stood stiff as a statue, worried that his friend's audacity might somehow rub off on him by mere proximity. He stared in silence, rapt by her boldness.

"Would that you could be, daughter. It would be easier on this old man's heart."

"Oh, please. Your heart's as hale as a whale."

"You misunderstand me," Anik said, sighing. He waved a hand through the air dismissively. "Regardless, I did not come to trouble you." He looked toward Malik with eyes of ice. "I came for him."

Malik bit the inside of his cheeks. A shiver ran down his spine. Luava's expression fell somewhere between confusion and concern, but for all her impudence, she knew better than to inject herself between her father and one of his students. "You go get some rest," he said. "We'll need it for the festival tomorrow."

Luava shrugged. "Fine, fine." Securing her things, she began to walk in the direction of home. She shouted over her shoulder as she trudged over loose stones. "Go easy on him, Dad. Otherwise I might forget how to make Mom's seal n' scallop soup."

Malik watched while she made for the lake's perimeter, stone and snow crunching beneath her boots. Soon he could only see her glowing night lamp, bouncing and bobbing with each sure step.

"Walk with me," Anik said. It was a tone that brooked no argument. He walked down from the shoreline and stepped onto the frozen surface of the lake, marching toward the copse of trees he himself had raised. The lake warbled with the caving of distant ice and the hollow echo of footsteps.

Malik could not help but worry. As they continued to walk, no words spoken between them, his worry only worsened. His body broke out in a cold sweat. _Does he know?_ While Malik did not doubt Luava's trustworthiness, there was no knowing what his sifu might have overheard. Anik was as strict a bending master as they came; rigid, conservative, fully devoted to the old traditions. When it came to men and women, the dictates were clear; martial waterbending was a man's duty, healing a woman's. To suggest otherwise was unheard of. If Anik ever perceived the truth in Malik's heart, he would be forced to expel him, to his father's undying shame and rage.

They arrived at the edge of the frozen grove. Malik had not been in an admiring mood when he stood here earlier, but looking upon the trees now he could see the intricacy and attention Anik had paid to the finer details. He'd apparently been up before dawn moulding and crafting the thing, tree by tree.

Malik recognized them as a variety of plum blossom, a flowering tree common to the Archipelagoes. Sifu Anik was rumored to have lived and trained in the Fire Nation for some time. Malik could believe it. It lent a hint to the severity of his training.

Thick tendrils of ice had been raised from the lake, tangled together to form mighty trunks. Anik had festooned every wending branch with countless frozen droplets, each one pinched and pulled between thumb and forefinger to give the look of veiny, oblong leaves. Even by starlight the canopy was beautiful to behold.

The ground was growing more and more tumultuous, the further they intruded into the grove. Lumps and mounds had been laid to emulate actual earthen stones—devious tripping hazards meant to throw the students off as they approached the center of the grove. Mounds of dirt, knotted roots, the choke of trees, these things were strange to Northerners, and Sifu Anik prided himself in his exotic challenges.

The trees opened up to a meadow bathed in drowsy moonlight. A mighty pillar stood in the center, perhaps fifteen feet in diameter and taller than Malik could guess. The goal for each student had been the same: find a way through the frozen grove and touch the pillar. By the look of the pristine snowpack that blanketed the meadow floor, no one had made it this far. "Sifu, if I may…"

"You may not," Anik said. Gripping Malik by the shoulder, they walked toward the pillar until it was close enough to kiss. A brief share of sunlight had marbled some of the surface, but otherwise the column remained pristine. From here Malik couldn't even see the top of it. _It must have taken a tenth of the lake to raise such a thing._

"Be still," Sifu Anik said. He dug his feet into the snow, hunched his shoulders, and slapped his arms together. He then swept both arms down with an almost violent speed. The lake's surface sheered and cracked around their feet. Anik's concentration turned heavenwards. With palms cupped tight together, he began to gesticulate in a mixing, circular motion. The ground lurched beneath them, and then they were blasting up the side of the cylinder on a slab of frozen lake. It felt like they were standing atop a mighty geyser.

Up top, the wind's temper was fouler. A chill cut into Malik, and he cinched the cords of his hood tight. He'd never been so high in his life, and his knees felt week. He didn't dare to look down.

Anik stepped off from the wedge of ice, calm as if he were standing on solid ground. His braided hair flew about his head.

Malik fell to his hands and knees, fearful that one wayward tempest might send him over the edge. Shaking, he crawled forward toward the dead center of the platform. There he stayed.

Anik snorted with derision. He casually waved his right arm, summoning up a wall that went up to his waist. "There," he said. "Better?"

"Thank you, Sifu." Malik gathered up enough courage to stand and join his master. The crescent cliffs of the Capital sprawled to the south. Glimmering sequins of light rimmed the edge, fair and final warning of the impending five hundred foot drop straight down into the city itself.

Father would be down there somewhere, relishing in his whip's crack. The hats he wore for the new moon celebration had grown too numerous to count. He'd wax each morning on how alive he felt, filled with purpose. "One day the responsibility will be yours, my son. Then you will see for yourself." Even when smiling, Father bore enough menace to turn Malik's blood cold.

Anik cleared his throat. "You were wounded today," he said.

"It was unwise to neglect the lake beneath me, Sifu. It won't happen again."

"I'm not speaking of the wounds you suffered by my hand. I speak of the ones you brought with you. Pain was etched in your every footstep, from the moment you entered my grove. Were it not for that, I'd have lashed you by the ankle like I did with the others."

Malik smirked. _So he was in the trees,_ he thought. _That is, until it was my turn._

Anik's brow furrowed. "Your wounds. I would know how you came upon them."

 _No. I do not need to tell him everything._ "Sifu, with respect, I'd rather not say."

Anik's mouth thinned until it was no more than a dark line between his beard. "Very well. I see I must speak with your father again, in that case."

 _Oh please, no._ "If Father disciplines me, it is only because I have given him reason to do so."

"I see," Anik said—and slapped him.

Malik's cheek stung with heat. Compared to Father, the slap was almost affectionate, though the shock of being struck made up for the slack. A wave of confusion smashed into him. "Sifu?"

Anik ignored the plea. "And just now? Have you given me reason to do so?"

Malik opened his mouth to speak, but the words only tripped out. "P—please, I…"

Anik slapped him again, harder this time. "Don't stutter, child. And stop staring at my face. Our actions are read in our arms and legs, not in our expressions."

"Master, I don't under…"

"Our arms and legs," Anik repeated. He swung his hand a third time.

Without a thought, Malik reacted. Darting his hand up to his master's wrist, he clenched and gave a quick, wrenching twist. Anik grunted in pain. Malik let go at once. _Idiot. You are such an idiot._ "Forgive me," he begged, falling to one knee. "I did not know myself just now."

Anik rubbed his wrist, arching an eyebrow. "Indeed? I daresay it goes deeper than that."

Malik bowed his head, eyes closed tight.

"Rise, child. You were right to stop me." Anik reached down and pulled Malik up by his meager forearms. "Your father thinks you are frail. My wrist would argue otherwise. He underestimates you, Malik, always has, and if your decisiveness is a surprise to _you_ , then think of how much it will surprise him. Keep that in mind."

Malik looked at his hands. _Easy enough for him to say._ "The strictures forbid it."

"So they do—and for good reason. Our tribe would not have come this far if the strongest of us exerted prowess over our ungifted brothers and sisters. But the strictures regard waterbending, do they not?" He gripped Malik's frail forearm and squeezed the meager bicep. "Tell me, when did I ever mention waterbending? Did the water bend my wrist?"

"No," Malik admitted. He wondered if his master knew what it was he was asking. _It'll be easier to show him._ He touched a gloved hand to his side and raised his parka. He made no effort to hide his pain this time. "These are from last week, after I'd decided to tell Father I was ready for the rites."

Anik's eyes grew wide when he saw the extent of Father's anger. "Tartok," he hissed, "you savage cur."

"He was furious that I'd brought it up," Malik said. "He told me I wasn't ready… told me it was his decision to make, not mine."

"Your brutish father knows far, far less than he thinks, I'll have you know." Anik narrowed his eyes and looked away from the bruises.

"I don't follow," Malik admitted. He lowered his parka.

"Then you can brush up on your tribal histories along with him. Once you did you'd recall that your father isn't the only one who can sponsor your passage into adulthood." He raised his chin and bunched his fingers into fists. "As your master, I reserve that privilege as well. And considering Tartok sought me out for your training, sought me out _by name_ , I find it particularly galling that he would not consult me in this matter." Anik spoke with calculate menace. "If anyone brings dishonor to your family, it is your father, not you. He would do well to seek his own inner balance, and grant you peace enough to seek yours."

Malik's mouth hung open. He was worried he'd somehow misheard Anik's offer, and for a breath he was too scared to reply. "Are you saying you'll sponsor my passage, Sifu?"

Sifu Anik nodded. "I will. It is time you journeyed into adulthood."

Malik felt lightheaded. In a rash of spontaneity he leapt forward and clutched Sifu Anik in a hug. That was an error. The sudden change of fortunes had cheered him, but the dour look on Anik's face quickly sobered Malik. The rite of passage was a solemn thing, not to be taken lightly. He drew two steps back, pressed his hands together with fingers curled over fist, and bowed. "You honor me, Sifu. I will not disappoint you."

"I trust you won't," Anik said. He put a hand atop Malik's head and tousled it with a knowing smirk. Hiking up his thick fur coat around his neck, he glanced at the grove below. With palms pressed downward as if to brush the snow from his kneecaps, Sifu Anik went about unmaking his creation. The trees surrounding the pillar quickly withered and melted into gelatinous puddles. The tower itself was slowly sinking as well. While the ice directly beneath their feet remained firm, the column beneath soon destabilized.

It felt to Malik like they were balanced atop a soggy mound of whale fat, upon which they were slowly sinking. By the time they reached the frozen lake's surface, all that remained of the column and the frozen grove was a sheen of soft rime. A field of frost stretched around him in all directions. The boreal veil rippled anew in streaks of lapis and garnet _._ Far to the East, across the immutable tundra, a huge thunderhead gathered.

Anik saw the storm as well. He gave Malik a gentle push in the opposite direction, toward home. "Let's be off, then. I could use a hot bowl of broth after that frigid business beneath the ice."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter III

* * *

She startled from sleep to the the squawk of fowline. She rose too quick, and smacked her forehead into a low hanging root.

"Ow! Okay, okay. I'm up." Sura rubbed her forehead. She wondered how big the lump might grow. She was already plagued by a pestering headache brought on by hunger, and this wasn't going to help matters.

Oki hopped his way over to the mouth of the hollow. He chirped happily. The cat owl cut an oblong shadow upon the floor of their hovel. Outside, the forest was awash in hazy sunlight.

 _Thank the spirits. But for how long?_ Crawling on hands and knees, Sura pulled herself from the hovel beneath the oakpine. She was dizzy from fever, and the fresh air would do some good. A slight breeze came through, carrying the heady smell of mud and peatmoss. A few of the roots surrounding her corpsetree had collected shallow pools of water between their tangles. _Better than a mud puddle_. She held her braids behind her head and dipped her lips into the deepest of the puddles. She took long, loud slurps. Her cracked lips bled little pink kisses into the water with each gulp, but she continued to drink all the same. When she'd drunk her fill of one puddle, she found another, draining that one as well. The water tasted earthy and bitter, but she didn't care; parched as she was, it tasted as good as if it were from the Spirit Pools themselves.

Sura plopped back down on the forest floor. Her robe had fallen open below the cinch, exposing a pointed kneecap. She rolled her eyes when she saw her legs. She brushed her fingers up and down her calves, rubbing at the prickly little hairs that had popped up over the last few days. A good steel razor would have made quick work of it, but hers had been stolen by a pack of leak-nosed urchins when she'd gone through her last village. They'd taken the last of her coin, too, and might've even stolen her erhu as well, if she hadn't been quick enough to clutch it tight. Even now that memory made Sura's head steam.

She kicked at a stone. If she'd stumbled upon a kindly earthbender at some point during her travels she might have gained a trove of sharp cutting stones in no time at all. But she had not encountered a single earthbender in over a year of travel through the Earth Kingdom.

Once, when she was still ignorant enough to expect help from the locals, she'd once made the mistake of asking where all the benders had gone. She had not expected such an emotional reaction. The villagers she'd spoken to only answered in anger and tears. Soon after she'd been asked to leave. Sura never broached the subject again.

She returned to her hollow and leaned against the charred wall. She'd hardly traveled at all, but she was out of breath. Her brow was beaded in sweat. She coughed a wet and bilious cough. The swollen pain of her stomach grew worse than before. _I shouldn't have drunk so much._ Soon enough her chest was seizing with excruciating cramps.

All throughout her ordeal, Oki continued to bring in meager offerings of dead rodent. Yesterday's gift she'd declined. Today's gift she tore into. Sura knew she couldn't survive long on raw squirrel-rat, but at this point she'd eat just about anything.

By midday the headache had crept to the top of her skull. Sura couldn't concentrate. Her vision was blurry. She held her hands in front of her face, but saw only two fuzzy, fleshy stumps. The burnt walls of the hollow began to spin, faster and faster. She fell upon all fours to steady herself. A moment later she was retching up the water she'd drank just moments before.

Oki flew over to her. Spreading his wings, he began to buffet her face with cool wind. He started to hoot and yowl, as if concerned. And he wouldn't stop. His noise was loud enough to make her wince. She wanted to nudge him away, to quiet him down, but she had no energy to swing her arm. Weary, bereft of senses, Sura gave herself to delirium.

She woke amidst a sea of gray. The fog was thick, absolute. She was certain that it blanketed the whole world. Her hollowed tree was nowhere to be found. When she tried to call for Oki, no words came out.

She found she could easily stand, so she picked a direction at random and started to walk. She walked for what seemed like hours, yet without any landmarks she wasn't sure she'd even gotten anywhere. Mist whipped at her ankles. There was neither ground nor sky. It was a choking fog. The more she breathed it in, the more she sensed its malevolence.

A harbor bell rang in the distance. She followed after it. Eventually she came across the faint figure of a man. His back was to her, but she knew her bending master's silhouette immediately. He had not changed one bit, but she had. Would he even recognize her now? More importantly, if he did, would she _really_ want to hear what he had to say?

She tried to cinch up her parka when she realized she was naked. Humiliated, she reached to cover herself with her hands, only to find she was featureless as a carved doll. She tried to retreat back into the fog, eager to hide herself, but the muscles in her legs had suddenly grown soft as boiled noodles. She couldn't move.

"A soul in conflict is a soul lost upon the sea of chi." The voice was a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. She heard the wet crack of bone. The man's head spun clear around to face her. There, she saw her Father staring at her, eyes bloodshot and bulging. The skin on his neck was taut like a wrung-up rag. Blood pooled in the corners of his mouth, while on either shoulder his tunic sprouted wet, red blossoms. He wheezed as he spoke, his voice choked with menace. "Malik knew the way. Do you?"

She woke with her head buried in a sweat-soaked pillow. Sura shifted and turned about, tugging at the hand-stitched coverlet that draped her body. She traced the pad of her forefinger down the weft of fine embroidery. Her vision was a blur—daggers of pain stabbed the backs of her eyes if she moved them around too much—but from what she could make out it looked like she'd somehow found her way indoors.

She'd ended up inside a rather warm and welcome room. The home was remarkably wrought in nothing but wood, wood everywhere; stained pine floorboards, walls of sturdy oakpine logs sealed tight with clayed mortar, handcrafted beams of oakpine supporting the slanted roof, pins and rivets glistening with resin. Such finery was beyond imagining back home, and yet someone had gone and crafted this place in the middle of a forest. Whoever lived here was clearly wealthy.

Oki slumbered by her ankles, his head tucked underwing. She looked down at the foot of her bed. Where were her things? Her sandals were gone, her shoulder bag, even the erhu had been taken. When Sura realized what she herself was wearing, her blood went cold. She'd been undressed. Her clothes were nowhere to be seen, and in their place were clothes meant for a man. _When they took off the clothes, they would have seen the rest._

Sura reached for her neck, her heart pounding with panic. The phial hung right where she'd left it. She kissed the phial once, twice, three times. She gave it a shake and watched the priceless water slosh within. Pressing it to her breast, Sura closed her eyes in gratitude. Some things were beyond precious… once lost, they could never be replaced.

A sharp gasp came from the doorway. Sura looked up in time to see the dusty brown mop of a boy's head before he bolted from sight. "Gran Gran," the boy said. "He's up, he's up!"

 _An older woman and a boy._ Sura hiked herself up until she'd gained a better look from the open windows across the room. She saw rooftops, maybe half a dozen, all with the same distinct slant. The tree line loomed just beyond. _A village in the forest?_ She held her breath and listened to the wind blow through the pines, the squeal of rusty hinges, the trilling of birds, and little else. A village as quiet as the grave.

The floorboards in the adjoining room creaked as a jolly old woman waddled into view carrying a platter carrying bowls and a clay kettle. She was a large woman even by Water tribe standards, round enough that she nearly filled the doorframe. She wore a tattered brown vest atop a faded green gown hanging down to her ankles.

Sura noticed the bare feet peeking out. The old woman's toes were bulbous and blood-swollen, as large as ripened redberries. The very act of walking must have been excruciating, yet Gran Gran showed no outward signs of discomfort. Indeed, her face was aglow at the prospect of new company.

"Spirits be praised," she said. "You had us worried, so very worried." She peeked over her cracked spectacles. The corners of her eyes wrinkled when she grinned. "Thirsty, I take it? Luckily I just finished brewing a fresh pot." She hefted the platter up a bit to flaunt the clay kettle.

It hurt to speak. "How… long?"

"Four days," Gran Gran replied. "I cannot say they were restful." The old lady set the platter upon a table made from the disc of a tree trunk. Taking two steps back, she bowed as low as her size allowed. "When my little Sprig found you, your skin was searing. Even in your waking hours you were lost in dream. We did the best we could, but our herbs and medicines ran to rot a long time ago. Thankfully the fever relented. That it broke at all is a miracle. A miracle indeed." She poured a bowl of tea with a quivering hand. "Here," she said, handing the wooden bowl to Sura. "It's a little strong for first-timers, but I assure you that's the way everyone likes it."

"Thank you," Sura said. She held the bowl with both hands and brought it up to her face. Wisps of fragrant steam rose from the shallow bowl. Sticking her nose into the steam, Sura breathed deep. She'd never smelled tea quite like this. It was heady and rich, suffused with wild spices. She took a cautious sip. The soothing tea was almost creamy, as if it coated her throat on it's way down. Sura took another sip, slower this time. She wanted to savor this. "Fine stuff," she said. "Very fine." It was an understatement. Sura had never tasted anything so rich and sweet.

Gran Gran beamed. "It warms me to hear that." She reached over and touched Sura's brow with the back of her hand. Satisfied by what she felt there, the old woman straightened up and waddled her way back toward the door. "Still running a little hot, but that's to be expected. What's important now is you regaining your strength. When you've finished with the kettle, say the word and I'll have Sprig bring you another. It'll do you a world of good, child. Trust me. And in the mean time, I'll spruce up a stew."

Sura nursed her tea, relishing each sip. _A roof overhead, a soft bed, a warm bowl of tea…_ _if this is my reward for getting hopelessly lost, I should have gotten lost sooner._ She was still having a hard time believing it. Kindness in this kingdom had become rare as a winter rose… and now to find a place like this? It was almost too much to believe—and would have been—if it hadn't been for Gran Gran's winning demeanor. Sura had nearly forgotten the feeling of kindness, the selflessness, the soothing warmth of another's touch.

When she'd drained her bowl down to the dregs she found a thick liquid that delighted her tongue. Curious, Sura scooped up a finger of the stuff and watched it dribble back into the bowl in little golden folds. She touched the stuff with her tongue, proceeded to suck her finger clean, and then went digging for more.

Sweets had always been a rare treat in the North. They did not keep well on the open seas, and always came at a steep premium. When Sura was still acclimating to her new life in the Earth Kingdom, the sheer amount of sugar and sweets had overwhelmed her. A single spoonful of tapioca was delicious, but two spoonfuls was enough to give her a stomach ache. She'd sworn off the stuff since then, but a year is a long time. Tastes can change.

"Sweetgold," said the boy. His little hands gripped either side of the doorframe and he leaned forward and back, into the room, then back out again. The wall creaked and crackled as he swung fore and aft. The movement sent his wild hair in all directions, but beneath the unkempt bangs his eyes were glued to her, and he favored her with a gaptooth grin.

"Sweetgold." Sura hummed around her finger, sucking the last drops from her forefinger until it made a little wet pop. "Is that really what it's called?"

"Well, no. Not really. I just think it sounds cooler than honey… don't you?"

"Oh, yes, definitely." She found herself nodding vigorously. Sprig's energy was infectious.

He hop-skipped over to the nearest corner where a sad sack of cloth lay strewn across the floor. He plopped down on top of it, crosslegged. It was clear by the spots and stains that it hadn't been washed in some time. Chutes of straw poked out from holes in the cloth sack, but the boy paid them no mind. He put his palms on his knees and leaned forward. "You're from the water tribe, aren't you?" he asked, talking all quiet-like, as though he were sharing some dangerous secret.

Sura raised an eyebrow, bemused. "What gave me away?"

"Gran Gran knew, soon as soon as she saw you. She knows all about the water tribe! She grew up next to the Shenlong. Said your people sailed up and downriver all the time."

 _And they still do. It's why I avoided the green dragon at all costs._ The Shenlong had served as a critical trade route for southbound ships since the dawn of the four nations, and for good reason. By weaving one's way down the green dragon, a wary trader could avoid the tempestuous northern seas, saving lives in exchange for perhaps a week of extra travel. The route also boasted an added benefit: avoiding altogether the fiercely territorial waters of the Fire Nation, which proved to be an enticing offer for less scrupulous captains.

The river boasted an abundance of nameless ports. Sura had stayed clear of every single one of them. She could not chance the sight of Water Tribe sails, fearing someone aboard might recognize her. Not that any of it had mattered; she'd found no warmer welcome inland. Suspicious they'd named her. Stranger. Spy.

 _Just stop,_ she was no call for such regrets. Not now. Needless fretting was all it was, and it did her no good to dwell on such things.

"Gran Gran," Sura said. "She said you were the one who found me?"

Sprig jutted out his chin toward Oki's direction. "He's the one you should thank. If he hadn't been hooting up a storm I might've never stumbled across you." The boy looked out the nearest window. "It was a lucky thing I even went out at all. But mushroom hunting is always best the day after a nice, hot rain."

"You think hot rain is _nice_?" Sura stuck out her tongue. "Nice isn't the word I'd use."

The boy shrugged. "Well, maybe it should be. Otherwise, you'd still be out there, and we wouldn't be having mushroom soup for dinner! So there." The kid crossed his arms, confident in victory.

Sura knew he was right. The clouds had wept for her all week, yet she had hidden, too weak-willed to accept their gifts. Any misplaced anger she'd directed toward the storm was a reflection of her own frail spirit. Was it surprise her bending prowess would suffer as much as it had? After so many endless days without purpose, months spent without meaning, how could it not? Bending derived its power from chi. Chi cannot exist without life, and a life without purpose is a hollow, withered thing.

Perhaps it was time to change that. These people had taken her in, clothed her, sheltered and nursed her back to health. She owed them a great debt, and she intended to repay it. She bowed her head in thanks. "You're right. I owe the rain an apology. And to you I owe the deepest thanks. Gran Gran must be proud for raising such a wise boy. Thank you, Sprig."

He stuck out his lower lip and huffed a lock of hair from his face. "I'm not a boy... I'm almost thirteen! And the name's not Sprig. No one calls me Sprig—except for Gran Gran. Call me Weiwei."

 _Feisty, this one, and smart. Puffs up well enough, but one look at those big olive eyes and the facade cracks like sunlight on soft rime. If Luava were here, she'd probably ask if she could keep him_. Sura bowed her head. "Pleased to meet you, Weiwei. I'm Sura."

"Sura, huh?" He frowned. "Kinda weird… isn't that a girl's name?" He squinted. "Wait. When I found you in the forest, you were in girl's clothes… so… what gives?"

And there it was. The inevitable question. The question she'd been practicing in one form or another ever since she'd emerged from her cocoon. Someone was bound to ask, sooner or later. It was a conversation she hoped to have with Father someday, and as a result Sura only ever practiced the topic in the most respectful and somber of tones.

Weiwei was not so far from her age though, and there was something endearing about him, disarming even; that tangled mop of chestnut hair, the gap between his two front teeth, his energetic eagerness to please. The words came easier than she'd expected. "Sura is a girl's name," she said. "In my tribe it means _new life_."

"New life," Weiwei repeated, rolling it on his tongue. "That's cool."

"Thanks, I picked it myself." She stared at the foot of her bed, where Oki slumbered. "As for the clothes I was wearing? I wear 'em because… because they feel right for me."

"Oh. Oh! Are you some kinda entertainer? Like an actor?"

 _If only._ Sura was aware of the traveling troupes in the area, professional performers who roamed from town to town. She'd tried to catch a show back when she still had enough coin to afford a ticket. The roles of women were played by men, an exhilarating fact that had always fascinated her since childhood. The crowds loved them! She recalled the long nights she'd spent in prayer, begging the spirits to send a single troupe to come north and put on a show, but none had come.

"No," she said. "I'm no actor." _A lie._ _I've been acting all of my life, one way or another._

"Oh." Weiwei said. His eyebrows squished together into a confused frown.

"But you're not far off." Sura swung her legs off the bed and leaned forward. "Tell me, Weiwei. Would you feel silly if you saw yourself in girl's clothes?"

Weiwei laughed at the absurd question. "Of course I would! I'm a boy."

Sura spun a finger through her hair. "And what about me? When you look at me, what do you see?"

"A thin guy with girly tassels in his hair?" Weiwei threw his arms up. "I don't know."

"Neither did I, not for a long time. Funny you should mention actors. There was a while in my life where I felt like an actor. Every day I would put on the costume I'd been told to wear, say the right lines, act the way I was expected to act. But this stuff here?" she tugged at the front of the man's shirt she wore, "none of this stuff is me."

"Oh," Weiwei said.

"I know you helped me out of my soaked clothes, so you would've seen what I have to work with down there. So what I'm about to say is gonna sound really weird." She took a deep breath. "I'm not some thin guy with tassels. I'm not a guy at all. I'm a girl."

She'd said it. For the first time in her life, she'd said it out loud, for the all the world to hear. There was no going back now. She searched Weiwei's face for news of her fate.

The boy's mouth widened until he ha the look of a northern carp. "Huh? A girl?" His eyes drifted down to Sura's waistline. "I'm… even more confused now."

"Welcome to the club," Sura said. "Most folks never need to stop and think about who they are while they grow up. They just… know. A boy is a boy, a girl is a girl. No one needs to tell them. I bet _you've_ always known, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"I wasn't that lucky. I got to grow up learning what I _wasn't_. And I wasn't a boy. That much I knew." She nervously rubbed the side of her arm. "For the longest time I was certain I was broken, like the spirits had pulled some grand prank on my parents the day I was born. Worse, there was no one to talk to about it. No one to tell me I was okay." She paused, took a deep breath, and went on. "Things got worse from there, until one day… when I did something foolish." She could still recall the numbing cold and the cruel current. She shivered reflexively.

Weiwei's expression bounced between thoughtfulness and confusion, as though he'd heard something his mind had never conceived of. And who could blame him? As far as Sura knew, Weiwei might have lived his whole life under the branches of these mighty oakpines. He wouldn't have heard of people like her.

Then again, neither had she. Unless her situation was as singular and unique as the avatar's—something she doubted very much—there _had_ to be others out there like her.

Weiwei's face slowly but surely turned beet red. "I'm sorry," he said, all miserable.

"For what?"

"For seeing you naked. Gran Gran says I'm not supposed to look at girls' private parts."

Sura felt a dam burst within her. She began to laugh at the top of her lungs, laughter so strong it threatened to thieve the very breath from her. Tears followed—the good kind—and she gasped for air so that she could laugh some more. She felt so light she could have floated away right there, tugged like a downy feather hitching a ride upon a zephyr.

Honesty had never paid such a fine reward as this. Filled with energy, Sura pushed herself up off the bed. A brief bout of dizziness followed, but she chomped her cheeks and practiced her breathing until it passed. She had rested long enough.

Weiwei hopped to his feet. "Are you okay to walk?"

"Yeah. I feel great. But you know what might make me feel even better?"

"No, what?"

Sura raised her arms out to either side of her and spun in place, showing off the old, moth-eaten clothes she'd been given.

Weiwei looked her up and down a moment before the realization struck. "Oh, right! Let me go get 'em." He ran from the room, and seconds later came the sound of a slamming door and the click-clack of wooden sandals bounding down wooden steps.

Sura went to the basin and splashed some lukewarm water on her face. It would feel good to be back in her robes again. More importantly, it would be good for Weiwei and Gran Gran to see her on _her_ terms, instead of that sad, sickly boy-like thing they'd found in the forest. Wearing her own clothes would be a start. But she'd still need to take care of the unsightly hair that had sprouted from her legs.

 _Well,_ Sura thought, _here's hoping Gran Gran has a good, sharp blade I can borrow._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter IV

* * *

Malik could not wait to be out of these layers and into a scalding bath. The walk home had taken nearly two hours, and his feet were killing him. Each footfall upon the hard city streets sent a sharp pain up his back.

He stuck to the outermost canals on his way to Tullik's Square. Cutting through the center of the city would have been a nightmare at this hour. Every conceivable nook and alcove was being converted by one tradesman or another, and the mood was frantic; merchants outfitting their stalls, food and wine vendors hurriedly prying open their late shipments. Near the center of the square stood a wooden platform. Carpenters were crawling over it like insects, frantic to finish the stage before the thunderstorm hit. A waterbending animal handler stood in front of the stage. He was busy testing a trick where a pair of tiger seals leapt back and between two levitating globes of water.

In the middle of Tullik's Square stood a frozen flame held high in a massive onyx brazier. A brilliant night pearl had been inserted into the flame's center. It shimmered coolly, casting an eerie blue pall over the square. Tullik, known better as the Mad Bender, had grown famous with his intricate and impressive sculptures of ice and stone, sculptures that he gleefully demolished at the end of every lunar cycle. Eighty years after his death, the Mad Bender's descendants continued the tradition in his stead. Malik vividly remembered some of his favorites; the forty foot sphere of milky marble balanced upon a short, wide spike of ice; the bouquet of massive frost lilies that grew tall as the Star Tower; the fountain of writhing serpents that spat steam and hot water upon unwary passers-by.

Malik's home was among those affluent houses that overlooked the square. Switchback staircases led to each individual residence, though his was the only one marred by a forbidding gate. An imported eyesore from the Fire Nation, the gate was cold wrought steel, barred with tasteless spikes. It sent a strong and effective signal against uninvited guests.

Once again the gate had fused itself shut from the cold. Malik rolled his eyes. He was in no mood to compel a defrosting. Tapped out as he was, even a simple rote act such as that would be an effort. Instead, he was forced to use both hands plus one foot to pry the thing open. His eardrums quailed to the trill of rusty hunger when he swung it shut behind him.

A stained glass lantern cast a cone of shattered light upon the porch. Otherwise the house was dark. The windows were sealed and shuttered, and a large sealskin had been stretched over the front door in preparation for the impending storm. The hide was newly bought, still taut and unyielding, and removing it from its hooks was a pain in the butt. Silvery white and spotted with ovals of gray, the hide had been cut from the back of a single mighty seal by a talented skinner, for it bore no stitch marks or spear wounds of any kind. The oil in the fur made it shine under the lamplight. Many would call it extravagant to use such a fine hide as a mere wind guard, but that was just the type of person Father was.

The greeting hearth glowed with a freshly stoked fire that filled the entryway in blessed warmth. Malik stirred the embers with a poker and watched as wisps of smoke stole up through a hole in the domed ceiling. Through the archway stretched the dining room, though without the aid of lanterns or torchlight he could barely see past the hearth.

Malik headed for the washroom when he heard the hiss of hot coals meeting water. Soon afterward came a fierce clatter followed by the sound of boiling water. He entered the washroom and was greeted by a creeping billow of steam.

"Oh no!" His sister's little voice echoed from the far corner of the room. Then, a pitter-patter of bare feet on wet stone. When she spoke next, it was from another corner of the room: "Way too much!"

"I think you overdid it a teensy bit, sis." Malik tried to keep from laughing.

"I only meant to throw in a few coals, not the whole pot!" Her voice was closer now, maybe twenty feet from him. "I slipped."

"Well, quit pacing then. You're liable to fall in and boil yourself alive." Malik regretted that phrasing as soon as he'd said it. Atka could be quite the literalist. It worked though. The sound of her pacing stopped at once.

"Well?" she asked. "Do something!"

"Fine, fine." He was planning on passing out in the bath anyway. Swirling his arms around his head like he was spinning an unseen ball, Malik began to mould the steam like a baker with wet flour. Little globules of water floated toward the room's center where they became one big amorphous mass.

He glanced over toward Atka while he worked. She looked relieved, and maybe a little envious _._ The waist-deep bathtub separated them, a beveled octagon that sank into the floor. The hot coals continued to bounce and roil the water from the basin of the tub.

Malik realized he needed to even out the temperature. He spread his arms wide and then brought them back in again, stopping just shy of an enthusiastic clap. Out and then in, out and then in, kneading the water until it began to cool. When it wasn't letting off as much steam heat, he dropped the floating globule back into the bath. The water's surface soon simmered down to a gentle burble.

Malik dipped a toe and wiggled it around a bit. "Ahh," he said. He knelt and ran four fingers through it, feeling the warmth encircle them. "Much better."

Atka shoved herself away from the wall with a slap of her palms. She walked awkwardly toward the water's edge and sheepishly dipped her pinky toe in. She drew back immediately. "That's still way too hot!"

"Not for me," Malik said. He winced as he tugged the under-tunic up and over his head. He folded it up and slid it into an empty cubby along the wall. "Right now I need nothing more than a nice, hot soak."

Atka's mouth lay open the way it usually did when she was being thoughtful. In the end though, she decided not to say anything.

"What is it?" he wondered.

"It's nothing."

Malik flicked a droplet of water in her direction. "C'mon, tell me."

She sniffled and wiped her nose. "I wish… I wish I could watch you bend without being jealous," she said. "I can't help it. If I could do what you can do, what Mom could do, then maybe Father wouldn't…" Her words trailed away.

Malik went to her and drew her in for a gentle hug. Her head found his shoulder, and she buried her face there. He didn't know what to say to her. It didn't seem fair that a six year old should be troubled by such things. Not even the elders knew why some had the gift and others did not. It wasn't her fault, and yet she punished herself for it all the same.

She would not listen when he told her she had nothing to be ashamed of. Every night he could hear her whispered prayers to the moon and ocean, beseeching their grace and guidance. She made her reasons plain, and they were enough to break his heart. If only she had Mom's gifts, she prayed, things could be different.

"You have a bright heart, sis. I see it every day. You're the one who makes this place warm and welcome. Whether you're a bender or not, I love you all the same. None of that's ever gonna change."

Atka wiped her nose against her sleeve again. "You don't know that. You said Father used to be happy, but _he_ changed _,_ didn't he? "

Malik didn't have a good answer _._ There was truth in her harsh words, but he wished she could have remembered the man as he'd known _was_ a different man during the first two years of Atka's life. A better man.

Then again, most everything was better then, back when they were still a family. Father had Mom, and he had his tanner's shop, of which business was booming. There was little else he could ask for.

Father did not speak of his ancestors anymore, but during those better days he often liked to point to his side of the family as the ungifted branches of the tree. For as far back as anyone knew, there'd never been a bender in his lineage. Not a single one.

That had all changed the day he met Mom and set his mind to wooing her. Hers was an unbroken line of gifted healers and benders whose heritage could be traced back to the dawn of waterbending, back when the very concept of push and pull was gleaned from the celestial tides.

Father shattered when Mom died. Many months passed by before he found the strength to scrape together the jagged shards of a life he'd once known, and by that point he was changed. Hardened and joyless, and the Father his little sister had grown to know and endure.

"It's gonna be okay." He squeezed her head to his chest and rested his chin on top of her head.

"No, it won't." She pushed herself away from him. "Why did Mom have to be the one to get sick? Why couldn't it have been _him?"_

"Atka!" He tried to grab hold of her, but she leapt over the water basin and fled from the room. Her clogs echoed down the hallway, pnctuated by the slamming of their bedroom door. He knew better than to go after her. If he tried talking to her now she'd only chastise him for letting the warm water go to waste.

Malik lowered himself into the bathwater. Whorls of steam carried the sharp tinge of lavender oil. He breathed the steam in, held it in his lungs, exhaled slowly, and waited for the day's ache to seep from his bones. He tugged the braid from his hair and tousled it a bit, the dark hair falling just shy of his shoulders. Closing his eyes, Malik leaned his head back upon a folded towel. _Just a quick nap,_ he reassured himself. _Atka deserves some company tonight. Maybe we can make dinner together. A hot bowl of cod soup would help ease our moods._

He woke to the crackle of thunder and the howl of fierce winds. His fingertips had shriveled like dried plums. The water had gone cold. The oil lamps in the washroom had burned themselves out, leaving only the dim glow of the night pearl that peered down from the center of the domed ceiling like a milky blue eye.

Malik rose and patted himself dry. He kept his eyes to the floor as he worked up the effort to face himself in the mirror. He always felt uncomfortable when it came to his appearance—or more accurately, the appearance he was expected to have. Worse than that though, the mirror forced him to face the person beneath the mask. The person he'd been taught and told to hide away.

He wrapped himself in his favorite robe, thick samite patterened with spirals of silverthread. Slipping into a pair of polished sandals, he clopped his way toward the kitchen. His sandals echoed in the dim-lit hallway. Father's bedroom was at the far end. The door to his room lay ajar. A ruddy stripe of light cut across the tiled floor.

Malik froze in place, his hunger forgotten in an instant. Had Father come home while he was dozing in the bath? And if so, why hadn't he been roused?

Malik slipped his sandals off and tiptoed to the door, head bowed. Father would be wanting to see evidence of today's training, as always. Sullen, Malik pushed the door wide open.

The room was painted in darkness save for the shuttered lamp that Atka held at the level of her eye. She knelt before the massive ironclad chest Father kept at the foot of his extravagant bed, an indulgence of red-stained wood, draped on all sides in damask curtains. With her free hand she steadied herself on the lip of the open chest, leaning in far enough that the chest seemed ready to swallow her up.

"You know you're not supposed to be in there," he said.

Atka bonked her head against the chest lid in surprise. "Ow."

Malik couldn't remember the last time he'd set foot in this room. Years, perhaps. Not that it was forbidden, but he had as much interest coming in here as he did traipsing into the den of a pregnant whalerus—no good came from such things. He stood beside his sister, stared within, and found himself without the words. A grim weight descended upon him. He reached out for her shoulder and squeezed softly. He knelt, and together they stared at the priceless treasures that lay within.

A thin slat of rosewood bisected the interior. To the left lay a pile of Mom's clothes and dresses, folded away all snug and neat. To the right were stacked shelves of jewelry; rings of silver and gold, abalone shell earrings, and necklaces with teardrops of fireblown glass. An ivory handle protruded from the topmost shelf. Atka gingerly clutched the handle and lifted it up to reveal a deep grid of interlacing wooden slots. All the tools of Mom's art lay within. There were makeup brushes still stained with facepaint from her last performance, little clay jars of powder and shade and eyeliner, a bevy of crystal tinctures and rare oils; the perfumes she loved in life reduced to bottles of scented memory.

Atka fished out a fragile looking locket all tucked away by itself. She pried at the clasp with a chewed fingernail. The locket popped open to reveal a seashell mosaic of a young woman's face. Atka gave the tiled mosaic a good long look. She held it up next to Malik's face. "You look like her," she said.

The discovery seemed to please her, but it also gave her a thirst for more. She peered deeper into the ironclad chest. "We don't have anything bigger than this?" she asked.

Malik shook his head. "I don't think so. But maybe…" He slipped his hand between a fold of silken shawls and felt around for anything that might be hiding underneath. "I wonder if Father kept any of Mom's old posters in here. She always looked amazing on those."

"Posters?" Atka asked.

"Yeah, you know the bright and colorful banners they hang out in front of Jenneq's amphitheater? These would be just like those. Mom and her troupe danced there so often she had a whole trove of the things. They used to hang all over the house."

"What happened to them?"

"I don't know. Father took them down the day she died. I'm not sure what he did with them."

He had a good idea though. Three years ago he'd tried to persuade the aging theatre owner to supply a spare from his voluminous archive, so that Atka could see how beautiful their mother had been, but Jenneq's mind had wandered off long ago. Reasoning with him was an exercise in frustration.

Atka pressed him for more. "Did you ever see her dance?"

"Of course. You did too, but you'd be too young to remember. She loved to practice in front of you." He felt something familiar beneath the stacks of cloth and linen. _Not the posters,_ he realized, _but almost as good._ He wrested the object free with a firm tug, then went back in to fish out its twin. When the shoes were reunited, he held them out for Atka to hold. "When she wore these she could water dance like no one else in the tribe."

Atka traced a finger along the unblemished laquer that shined the color of the moon. The whalebone blades fastened to the soles were still sharp enough to cut. Atka handed them back with a solemn, respectful look on her face. "Tell me what she looked like. When she danced, I mean."

Malik hefted the clogs by the laces, frowning. He was not so sure that he could. The images were seared in memory, but he was no poet when it came to storytelling. His words would never do her justice.

But perhaps he did not need words. He had seen enough of her performances, let alone the thousands of hours she'd spent practicing one routine after another. He tugged a bleached silken shawl from the chest, the same one that Mom had worn during her last dance with the White Graces. Malik unfurled the shawl with a flourishing snap and flung it around his neck. He dipped down into an extravagant curtsey and said, "I'll do better than that. I'll show you."

He gently set down the clogs and stepped into the center of the room. It took a moment to recall her rhythms, her fluidity of movement. The gestures and the sweeping motions came easier when compared them to the bending styles he knew. While he could not fit into Mom's clogs, nor dance upon the ice as she once had, the true talent of a water dancer came not from the elements, but from the fluidity of the dancer herself, the harmony of movement, and the artistry of a body in motion. It was a matter of feeling the flow within and interpreting it with enough grace to honor the Spirits.

He closed his eyes and swayed from side to side. The flow soon took hold. He weaved and contorted in ways he'd never dared try before. The soft silk whirled and spun at the whip of his hand, as if he were bending the cloth itself.

Atka was cheering him on, but he barely heard her. Deeper and deeper he dove into a trancelike state, past the soreness in his muscles, past the weariness of the day's training, to a place of peace and certitude. _This feels right._ He threw his legs up and balanced upon the palms of his hands, his mother's shawl now wrapped around the ankles of his feet. With a sharp twist of his legs, he spun into a cartwheel. The final trick was the most difficult, a transfer of the shawl from ankles to shoulders, the dancer spinning all the while in a blur of athletic finesse. It was a difficult maneuver to be sure, and one that he'd only practiced a few times in secret. In the midst of all that spinning and flipping, he heard Atka gasp. He'd never used one of Mom's shawls before. He dreaded the idea of tearing it.

He slipped the shawl from his neck and scanned it for any tearing or frayed bits. "It's fine, see?" He held it up to show Atka. She would not look at him. Her eyes saw through him, toward the hallway. Malik did not need to look to know who stood there.

"Go to your room," said their father, to Atka. "And remain there." As she scurried off, he stopped her long enough to confiscate the lantern she held. He took large, menacing steps forward, hands visibly shaking as he reached for the shawl. He folded it with a gentle reverence, careful to follow the old creases. He brought it up to his nose and closed his eyes.

"I used to be able to smell her hair in this." Father hefted it into the chest with a look of disgust. He did the same with Mom's bladed clogs. Slamming the lid shut, he walked the perimeter of his room, the lantern held limp by his side. "This is how you honor your mother's memory?" Father asked. "By parading around in her things?"

Malik wilted. He saw the crouching menace in those eyes. Nothing he could say would dissuade Father now. Nonetheless, he felt compelled to answer. "We'd been thinking of her," he said, miserably. "Atka wanted to know what it was like to see her dance."

"Liar." Father clutched a fistful of Malik's robe, lifting and twisting until it pinched the skin of his neck. "It's not enough that you seek to unman yourself at every possible turn? Must you inflict your sickness upon your sister as well?" He huffed out a lungful of air. With eyes pinched shut, he loosened his grip. "Oh, son. I held hope, a dim hope, that you'd have outgrown this affliction by now."

"Please, Father. I beg…"

Father silenced him with the back of his hand. Pain screamed across Malik's cheek. The side of his face felt warm and sticky, and it became hard to see out of his left eye. With a sharp pinch and twist to the earlobe, he was forced into a supplicating bow. Tugged by the ear, he was led from the room and down the hall. At one point Malik felt an excruciating pop from the base of his earlobe. He thought he saw a sliver of light peek out from within the bedroom he shared with Atka.

They stopped at the head of the long banquet table. Father released the hold on Malik's ear and wrapped an arm around his shoulder instead. He gestured down the length of the frozen table with his other hand. "Tell me, my _son_ , are you as blind as you are stupid?"

"N...no, Father."

"Nuh-nuh-no?" He repeated. "Spare me your simpering. I speak of the preparations on display, preparations you either ignored or missed." He pointed to the finery; crystal chalices, ivory-handled silverware, polished pewter flatware. "If the guests I am expecting had chanced upon your foppish prancing before I had…" Father exhaled angry air through his upturned nose. "Listen to me, son. Men like me stake their livelihoods upon their reputations, Malik. As my _heir—_ I need you to understand your role. One day this might all be yours."

"I do understand. I do, I do!"

Father walked the length of the table, His bony finger tracing the glassy surface. "I wish I could believe that," he said. The rage in his voice was gone. He almost sounded kindly. "But even you must see I've been too lenient. I have spared the rod for long enough." He stopped in the entryway, peering into the ruddy glow of the dying fire. He reached into the brazier, and with the poker gave the coals a stir. When he returned to the banquet table, the glowing hot poker was still in his hand.

 _It's a test. He's done them before. Wants to see what I'll do, wants to see if I'll flee like the coward he thinks I am._ Malik pursed his lips tight and tensed up.

Father dragged the poker's tip along the table and cut a weeping channel into the pristine slab. Gripping the handle with both hands, he drove it downward into the table. Steam erupted around the poker. The melting ice sang a shrill song. A reservoir of hot water pooled around the poker. By the time the bubbles had dwindled, the poker had been driven halfway into the table base. Father wrenched it upward, sending a violent spray of warm water across the marred tabletop.

"I do not intend to draw this out any further than is necessary," Father said. "I shall expect this banquet table to be pristine by the time our guests arrive. But that shouldn't be a problem for you… should it, _waterbender_?"

"No," Malik said.

"Good." Father showed a thin smile, his lips barely visible at all. He pointed to the corner of the table with the tip of the poker.

Malik approached the edge of the table and leaned forward. It felt cool against the front of his robe. His face felt like fire, and his left eye had swollen shut. Malik balanced his head on his chin and stared down the long length of the table. He counted nine seats total, not counting Father's throne. _Ten pillars of the community_.

Father walked up behind him, tapping the stone floor with the iron poker. "Pain is the storm that all men must weather. It is what separates us from women _._ And you're not a woman, are you Malik?"

A shock of agony echoed up Malik's spine, and he felt the warm tickle of blood streaking down the backs of his kneecaps from where the first blow fell. He closed his eyes, jaws clenched tight so as to not bite off his tongue. _Do not let him see you cry_. In the corner of his eye he watched Father raise the poker aloft.

The second blow sent a shudder through Malik's body. He saw spots, and his head went adrift. He scrunched his eyes shut and tried to choke back the tears. Malik had never known a pain this bad. A dark part of him even wondered if Father meant to cripple him.

The third strike sent blood and agony down his legs. Even the act of breathing became difficult, and Malik fought to catch his wind like sucking air through a reed. Each of Father's hits was more excruciating than the last, and he knew he would not last much longer. He waited for the fourth.

Instead, Father shuffled and turned. "I told you to stay in your room," he said. "Return to your chambers. Now!"

"No," Atka said.

For the briefest moment, Father was at a loss. "What did you say?"

"I won't!" Atka crossed her little arms, brave little Kya clutched to her heart. "You leave Malik alone!"

"Enough, Atka. Return to your room—this is not a sight for young eyes. I won't ask again."

"And if I don't, then what? You'll beat me?"

Father winced. "I would never lay hands upon my daughter." He took two steps back from the table and hefted the fire poker like it was some fine sword. "Fine, stay if you like. See what your impudence is worth." He raised the poker high above his head.

Malik held his breath, waiting for the shock that would send him reeling. He waited. And waited. Nothing. When he gathered enough courage to glance back, he found Father pressed up against the nearest wall. His face was pale in frozen shock; stiff as a statue, jaw hanging low and limp, eyes wide like he'd seen the dead.

Father's gaze shifted between Atka and the bloody ice spike that she'd sent through his left shoulder. He dropped the poker and reached for the protruding shard that had lifted him a good half-foot from the ground.

Atka gaped at her hands. The surprise of her discovery was plain on her face. Her eyes met Malik's, wide with disbelief. She looked like she wanted to say something, but the shock of it all had struck her dumb. Her gaze shifted back to Father, and those same wide eyes narrowed into cruel slits. She pursed her lips tight.

Malik tried to reach for her, but the searing pain in his legs was simply too much to bear. "Atka," he pleaded, "Don't…"

Atka could not hear him. Even if she could, it all happened too fast. She moved like a savant, with bending motions as unpracticed as they were elegant. Malik had never seen such movements before, certainly not from any of the old scrolls, nor from Anik or any other livingbender. She slid into a peculiar stance of balance and made a pulling gesture with both hands, fists tight like she were tugging at rope. There was a wet crunch and the sound of snapping bone. A second harpoon of reddened ice erupted from Father's right shoulder. It became his turn to scream.

Atka wove her arms like a pair of dancing snakes, shackling Father up by arm and leg within thick, frigid coils. She seemed deaf to his painful cries, or perhaps she was numb to it. Father's blood seeped down the wall and pooled beneath his feet, black and red and steaming. He tried to speak, but the words came out as gasps. His eyes soon fell shut.

She drew back from whatever dark cliff she'd stood upon and began blinking rapidly. "Is he…?"

Malik wiped the blood from his lower lip. He reached for Father's ankle and pressed two fingers to a particular spot that Luava had once shown him. Father's heartbeat was faint, but it was there. "He may live," Malik said. He looked upon the damage his sister had done and shook his head. _Oh, Atka. What have you done?_

Atka peered up at him, frowning. "What's wrong?" She spread her legs and flexed her arms. "Now there's two of us! Let Father try to mess with two waterbenders."

Malik wished he could share in her happiness, her blissful ignorance. If it were that simple, he might have put a stop to the beatings years ago, were it not for the laws laid down when the Tribe was still young.

Then again, many of the older laws were exactly that; ancient and outdated, disused, the strictest tenets all but forgotten. Perhaps her ignorance would be enough to save her. _She didn't know._ _No one had bothered to tell her._

Half-mad schemes filled Malik's head. As far as anyone knew, Atka wasn't even capable of bending. No one would need to know the truth of Father's wounds, and Father wouldn't risk the truth for fear of losing the treacherous treasure that was his daughter. He would need to fetch Luava at once, to staunch Father's wounds. If he could get her in time, no one else would ever have to know.

From outside came the rasp of a frozen hinge, no more than a tiny squeak of iron admist the howling storm. For Malik it was shrill enough to shatter his schemes into ruin.

 _No, no, no. This isn't fair. She didn't know the rules. Why would she have?_ _No one knew she could bend, so no one ever told her._

In mere moments Father's guests would be here, all brought to witness to the ruin of Atka's life. An animal hide and an unlatched door were all that separated them from the whole sordid display. Malik could hear the men outside. Their bickering voices rose well above the howling wind.

He cursed the blizzard. _Couldn't you have waited a day?_ Guests usually waited for an invitation of entry, but whenever fierce storms descended upon the city such decorum was dispensed of in favor of watching out for ones fellow tribesmen. In such weather a complete stranger could be almost considered as welcome as family. _If only that were so._

Malik cursed his father for pushing Atka to this irreparable point.

He cursed the strictures, unyielding and unfair. He cursed himself above all. If he hadn't been born to feel so backwards, none of this would have ever happened. Now his sister would be paying for it. _Unless…_

Malik fell to his knees. "Atka," he said. She did not hear him, staring instead at their unconscious father. Malik gripped her forearms so tight that she winced. He didn't mean to hurt her, but there was no time, and she hadto listen to only had time to say it once _._ "Hear me, Atka. Everything you just did here? Keep it between us. Our secret. You can never tell a soul about it. Not anyone. Ever."

"Why not? I'm glad I did." Her eyes drifted back to their father. "I'd do it again."

Malik hissed through his teeth. "Don't say that. Don't even _think_ that. I forbid it."

"But why?"

"Not now." He shot a glance over his shoulder. If the guests saw him conferring with Atka his plan would evaporate like mist on dawning water. "Just say nothing and you won't get in any trouble. That's all you need to know right now, okay? I promise I'll tell you everything once this has blown over."

"Till _what's_ blown over? Why would I get in trouble? Dad might've killed you!"

"Damn it, Atka!" Malik felt like shaking her. The impulse recoiled him at once. His voice fell to a whisper. "I need you to trust me on this. Please listen, okay?"

Atka squeezed her stuffed Kya doll to her chin. Her pigtails bobbed when she nodded, her wide eyes moistening. "Okay."

Malik should have been quicker about the hug, but he risked a lingering moment more. He could not say when he would get another chance. In her ear whispered, "Good. Run to our room now, little sis. Bar the door, and don't open it for anyone you don't know. If anyone asks you why, tell them you're afraid."

She frowned. "Afraid of what?"

"Just that you're afraid, nothing more. Do you understand?"

"Yes, only… only Father saw. He saw and he knows. He'll tell what happened, even if I don't."

 _No. Father wouldn't be so foolish. Not after the gift I'm about to give him._ "Let me worry about that," he said. "No matter what happens, you must keep this a secret—our little secret. Promise me, Atka. Promise me you'll keep our secret."

Her gray eyes had filled like two reservoirs by then, her tears falling in streaks. "I promise."

"Good," he said. "Go now."

Malik watched her flee down the hall, around the corner, and out of sight—perhaps, he worried, out of his life. He wondered if he was endeavoring upon a terrible mistake, one that could never be undone. _No. This is the right path_.

He looked at his Father. Someone would have to answer for this, that was clear _._ What came next would take a different kind of determination, a different kind of resolve, and the wherewithal to keep up a convincing lie. Malik could be a good liar when he needed to be—he'd been practicing his whole life, in a way. But within the best lies there lived some shards of truth. There could be no lingering questions on who was to blame.

He lay in wait as the voices of Father's guests began to fill the entryway. Unlit as the banquet room was, they could not see far past the warm glow of the hearth fire. "An odd welcome," one voice complained. "Where is Tartok?" asked another. "And why aren't the lamps lit?"

Father must have recognized familiar voices, for he began to stir. His head tilted to one side, his eyes lolling wildly. He let out a groan of pain, and a plea for mercy. A few of the guests must have heard something. "Tartok?" asked one. "Who's that in there?" another. There came a shuffle of feet on the cold stone floor and the rattle of oil lamps being lit and lifted.

It was time. Malik beckoned toward the ice wall. Though he was well away from its cold surface, he could feel its icy touch upon his fingertips all the same. He grabbed hold of it with his will's strength and wrenched back toward himself with a violent pull. The sound of snapping ribs threatened to make him sick. He heard a chorus of gasps, as though the wind had been sucked from from the far end of the room. Malik ignored them, muting himself against their anger and disbelief. He could not look away from what he had done. In their shock, they would not have been able to hear the whisper that left his lips.

"Father," Malik said. "Forgive me."

* * *

 _Next chapter coming soon!_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter V

* * *

Sura blinked the tears away as she steadied the knife. She was painfully aware of Gran Gran's impatient gaze even though her head was turned. Every sliver of onion that flew off the cutting board gave her more cause to sweat. She didn't want to share Weiwei's fate. The boy had been banished from the house until suppertime, forbidden from any more stolen samplings.

He'd himself to blame, really. He had concocted a scheme to fan away the onions' weeping vapors with a thin wooden plank that he batted up and down. The plan had had some merit, because for a while the tears that blotted out Sura's vision began to lessen. After a while he'd gotten a bit carried away. He started boasting about being 'the world's best airbender', and in his boisterousness lost grip of the plank he'd been fanning. It had flown across the kitchen, smacking the corner of Sura's chopping board. Butchered bits of onion had gone flying. "Out with you!" Gran Gran had shouted, her mood all flared up at the sight of wasted food. "Somedays I wish that boy had never heard of the air nomads."

Sura winced when she felt a stinging in her finger. A single drop of blood welled where she'd nicked herself. She whispered an old curse-word from childhood and brought the side of her forefinger to her lips.

"Hurt yourself?" Gran Gran asked. "That knife's always had a temper." She gently clasped Sura's wrist. "Here, let me see." She held it up, squinting at the finger a moment, peering from this angle and that. "Hmm. Looks fine to me, dear."

Sura was worried how could Gran Gran could miss such an obvious wound. Was the older woman's vision truly that poor? But then she looked again for herself, and indeed, the gash was gone. What did it mean, though? She had tasted the copper of her own blood only moments before. Now there was nothing, as if she'd never been cut.

Gran Gran seemed less impressed. After a pat upon the back, she leaned in and hefted the cutting board out from under Sura. "I think I've got it from here." She dumped the onions into the pan and doused them with a bit of oil. "How about you go outside and make sure the master airbender isn't getting into any more trouble? Don't let him get too far, either. Once the onions have been sweated it won't be much longer. "

"You bet," Sura said. She was out of there in a cold second. The savory smells Gran Gran had been conjuring up had been enough to drive a hungry girl half-mad. That was her own fault, though. She'd eaten only a light breakfast when she'd learned tonight's dinner was going to be something special. She'd even skipped her noontime snack just to save more room for Gran Gran's legendary dumplings, and so she was happy enough to take her up on the babysitting suggestion and escape from further torment. Maybe now her grumbling tummy would shut up.

She found Weiwei in the center of the village. He was playing amongst the ruins of a long and large building. Every tree within fifty feet of the lengthy structure had been felled. Dusty sunlight fell over the ruins, a stark contrast to the shaded huts that dwelled in the shade. A pair of yawning doorways bookended either end of the structure's sagging facade. The frames had been buckled in iron and built to last, but the wooden roof and walls between them had collapsed under a season of untended accumulation. Weiwei began to climb upon the wicked teeth of a cracked stone saw-blade jutting out from the center of the collapsed structure. Beside the ruins lay a stack of hewn logs tied together with rotten rope.

New life had taken root everywhere she looked. She saw veiny green sproutlings, adolescent oakpines high as her shoulder. She saw overeager weeds bursting through the forgotten stone foundations, greenthorn bushes large enough to swallow a sailor, bright wildflowers that flourished anyplace that promised a glimpse of sunlight. Nature had taken up residence within every hut and house, save for one. Sura glanced back at the home of her hosts, the one building that hadn't been abandoned.

She found a nice spot in the shade where she could sit and watch Weiwei from a distance. He'd grown bored of the dilapidated lumber mill, now bobbing and weaving his way north through a nasty patch of wildflowers and greenthorn shrubs. The recent rains must have coaxed the flowers into fresh bloom, the field an explosion of vibrant red and orange blossoms.

Weiwei jumped and hollered as he went, kicking up a cloud of pollen that glimmered like amber dust in the sunlight. _So much energy._ It warmed her mood to see someone who was allowed to act his age. She wished her sister could be here to meet him. They seemed so alike. Both brash, both brave; she was certain the two of them could become fast friends, given the chance.

Sura heard a sound of rustling leaves overheard, glancing up in time to see Oki land midway upon a crooked oakpine branch. His tail feathers wobbled fore and aft as he found his center of balance. She made a clicking sound with her tongue and teeth. The cat-owl turned his swivel head clean around to regard her, but only for a moment _._ She'd given up on trying to assess his mood months ago. She was terrible at it, and she shad the faded claw marks on her arms and elbows to prove it.

Weiwei's hollering had stopped. She craned her neck to get a better look over the wildflower patch, looking out for a glimpse of his wild head of hair. She stood and took a few short steps. Still nothing.

The wildflowers were covered in spiky little leaves that loved to cling at her robes. Sura cinched the cord tighter around her waist. She held to the path Weiwei had already made, her arms crossed tightly against her ribcage. The path led to some sort of clearing within the wildflower patch. She found him there, balanced on his haunches in the center of an open field.

No wildflowers grew here, nor bushes nor trees; nothing at all flourished beyond the stone-ringed perimeter upon which she stood. The only thing that grew from the unblemished soil was an oblong earthen mound the rough shaped and size of a capsized longboat. Tall rock piles had been neatly stacked upon the mound; three in total, each one evenly spaced from the others. _No,_ she realized. _Not just piles._

It was best that she hold back. She did not wish to intrude any further—she'd already imposed enough on these two, hadn't she? Sura tucked herself amongst the wildflowers, silent and still. She watched him as, with the tenderest touch, he scooped his fingers into the warm, wet earth to dig out a day-old sproutling. After a little coaxing he drew it forth, roots and all. He swept some loose soil over the hole and tamped it gently with his palm. He walked around the mound toward the far end of the field. There he tore the roots from the stalk and chucked the separate pieces into the wildflowers. He stood there for a while, motionless except for a quiver in his shoulders.

Gran Gran's shrill dinner bell cut through the solmen silence. Weiwei turned to face the sound. Sura flinched when she saw his features. The anger in his eyes was plain… the frustration, the sorrow…

She felt like an intruder, a sneak caught in the act. Only when she'd heard the dull scrape of fabric being torn did she realize she had walked backwards into the ornery clutches of a greenthorn bush. The more she tugged, the more the bush took hold of her.

Weiwei hurried over to her, frowning. "Quit struggling," he said. "You'll only make it worse."

Sura's face grew hot with embarrassment. She straightened her back and stood still as a sculpture. He worked fast, tugging narrow green spines free by the fistful. She felt his calloused fingers take hold of her wrist, and he did not release her until he'd led her safely out of the brambles.

They walked home in silence, side by side. Sura felt like a total jerk. On top of that, she'd torn up her favorite (and only) set of robes, and her hair was an utter wreck. _Great job. What better way to show respect for a dinner in your honor?_

She knew she should talk to him, ask him if everything was okay, but she decided against it. After a week in his energetic company she knew well enough that if Weiwei felt like talking, he would be talking.

Gran Gran was sitting upon the front porch by the time they returned. She anxiously tapped her swollen foot upon the porch. "Well aren't we punctual," she chided. When she saw Sura's disheveled state, her wrinkled eyes drew thin. "Sura, my dear, I told you to watch after him. Not join him in his games—"

Weiwei interrupted her. "We were at the barrow."

Gran Gran blinked twice, her lips pursed together. Her stern features thawed, frustration and impatience melting away.

"And leave her alone," He added, tilting his head in Sura's direction. "She was only following me, like you asked."

"I… I see," Gran Gran said. She raised her hand to hide a cough. "Well, come on inside," she said, more gently. "Supper's waiting."

They sat around a small square table with room for four. The remaining chair was dusty, disused. A vicious hatchet lay upon the seat, handle leaned up against the back, as if a place were being saved for someone. Gran Gran had even laid out bowls and cups for four. When they were all three of them seated, Gran Gran leaned over the table and hoisted the lid up from a cast-iron pot in the center of the table. Thick steam curled up around the lid, filling the room with an earthy aroma. She indicated with a gesture of her hand to dig in. They dug in.

Sura scooped three dumplings into her bowl, thinking that seemed like a good amount to begin with. She plucked a ripe dumpling between her chopsticks and lifted it to her lips, pinching off a piece between her teeth. She chewed slow, eager to savor the myriad flavors; the subtle spices, the crisp freshness of the sautéed onions, the earthy aftertaste of Weiwei's harvested morels.

Delicious as the food was, Sura noted the souring mood of her hosts. Weiwei and Gran Gran hadn't said a word since they'd sat down. She wondered if the empty chair had something to do with it. Weiwei's mother? His father? Sura didn't know.

 _Add it to the list. It wouldn't kill you to ask, you know._ All these months spent in the Earth Kingdom and she felt like a know-nothing outsider. The villagers who'd shunned her, the farmers, tradesmen, and traveling merchants who'd had no work to offer her had all had the same unwelcome disposition, a disposition she now saw on the faces of her hosts.

Something had happened in this forest. Something awful enough to make everyone flee. She wondered what it was that all of these unfriendly villages had in common. Considering how long she'd been in these lands, Sura might have learned something by now… but she'd never worked up nerve enough to ask.

That had to stop. Like it or not, the Earth Kingdom was going to be her home for at least the next six years. She owed it to herself to find out what had happened to her new home.

So she asked.

"Laogai happened," Weiwei spat back, as if the name itself was poison. His fists slammed upon the table, rattling every cup and bowl.

"The Earth King?" Sura asked. She was taken aback by his fury, and made no efforts to hide it.

"Excuse my grandson's passion," Gran Gran said. "He holds a great deal of pr-" She hacked out a series of deep, wet coughs. She raised her hand to wave off any help, extending a finger to signal she had more to say.

"Pride in his home," she continued. "And well earned, for that matter. His grandfather founded this village."

"Fifty-six years it's been. So very rebellious, my husband was. Eager to slip from under the crown's yoke, eager to make his own way. That sawmill you saw outside? All his idea." She leaned back in her creaking chair. "For a while it was just the two of us. Worked out well, too. After a while we began to prosper. A good, long while, in fact. New roads were blazed. Things really took off when the larger trade caravans started adding us to their routes. In time the village swelled up like one big extended family. My boy Jintao grew up beneath these trees… as did hisson." Gran Gran reached over and pinched Weiwei's cheek, leaving a rosy welt. "There are always ups and downs when you choose to live in a place of solitude, but overall things were good here. Better than good, even."

Weiwei leaned forward. "Then everything changed when the Earth King attacked!"

Gran Gran rapped the table with her spoon. "Don't interrupt. I was just getting to that part."

Sura's eyebrows shot up. "The Earth King was here?"

The older woman shook her head. "Laogai never leaves the capital. He fears his own shadow, to say nothing of the people he rules. So he sends his soldiers instead. They began with the northern coastlines—near to where you would have landed. Taking every earthbender, every able-bodied man. From there they swept south across the peninsula. I remember the day they came to our village. The earth quaked beneath the march of their boots. Soldiers by the thousands, all moving as one until they'd surrounded the village. Every man, woman, and child was rounded up outside the mill. There, we were addressed by their commander. He announced that all of our men, all of our benders, were being given the 'honor' to serve his majesty..."

"By the order of General Baboon," Weiwei said. Oki gave a hooting yowl in agreement, and flew up onto the table.

"Baojun," Gran Gran corrected. She reached out to Oki and patted him on the head before gently shooing him off the table. "This commander, he almost made it sound like it was a choice. But when our men balked, they were savagely beaten." The corners of Gran Gran's mouth hardened. "Three brave souls took up axes to protect our earthbenders, and paid for their defiance with their lives." She bowed her head a moment, and with the corner of her apron dabbed the moisture from her eyes. "They left the dead for us to bury. Everything else they took."

"No one could bear the loss," Gran Gran said. "Without the strong backs of our men to wield the axes, nor the benders to work the mighty stone saw, the village was doomed. Little by little they began to leave. The more talented craftswomen carved out new lives elsewhere. Some headed south, toward Omashu. Most opted for a smaller hamlet a few days travel West of here. Now it's just Sprig and I."

Gran Gran closed her eyes and said no more. Weiwei stared at the vacant chair, his appetite forgotten. It was a silence Sura did not relish breaking, but her questions were too numerous. She had to ask, else she might start bursting from the seams. "Why didn't you go with them? The ones who went West, they must have offered to help you out?"

"Oh, yes. Many tried." The old woman stared out the nearest open window. "But this is my home, Sura. I've raised my son here, as he has done with his. What if he were to return to find us gone?" She stood and went to the window. "I could carve a note, yes. But it goes deeper than all that. I suppose it's the earth in my blood. We're simply too stubborn."

Weiwei hopped down from his chair and ran to the other side of the table to stand beside her. "And where Gran Gran stays, I stay." He crossed his arms and jutted out his chin.

"My brave little protector," she said, bemused.

After supper, Gran Gran set to brewing her strongest black tea. Weiwei was only allowed half a cup, lest he get too wound up. They sat there for hours sharing the stories and songs they knew. Sura would have eagerly talked 'til the sun came up, but the dumplings had done their job well. Even her hosts were starting to look drowsy.

Sura insisted on being the one to clean up, an offer that Gran Gran was happy to accept. She'd been on her feet too much today anyway, and all that work had taken a toll. By the end of the evening she'd retreated to her room, weary from her sporadic fits of coughing.

It did not take long for Sura to scour the wooden bowls and cups. Weiwei was already sprawled out on his bed by the time she returned to their shared room. It was a hot evening and he'd impatiently kicked the sheets down past his ankles. The gap 'tween his front teeth whistled softly as he snored. His upper lip quivered with each breath like a wilted leaf in the breeze.

Sura put head to pillow and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours. She thought she'd been tired, yet she couldn't find her way to sleep, not with the sickly sounds Gran Gran was poorly attempting to hide. It sounded like she was trying to squelch the sound with her hand so as not to disturb their sleep, perhaps hoping it would clear up on its own—only it did not seem to be clearing up. It was getting worse.

Sura held her breath as she slipped from her bed, careful not to wake Weiwei. Oki's glowering amber eyes watched her from the darkest corner of the room. _You keep quiet now,_ she mouthed to him.A few of the older wood planks flexed under her weight as she crept along. She froze. Weiwei stirred a spell and mumbled about the taste of lilies. He faded back to sleep before long.

Gran Gran's bedroom door had been removed some time ago. A sheet of fine net cotton hung in its place. The net offered no true privacy, yet all the same Sura felt abashed when she tugged it aside. "Gran Gran?" she asked, softly. She peeked her head in.

The old woman lay sprawled on her back upon the largest bed in the house. The rise and fall of her chest was worryingly shallow, and her skin was slick with sweat. Sura rushed to her side. She knelt and pressed the back of her palm to the old woman's brow. The skin was cold, clammy. Every ragged breath was a battle.

 _Winter sickness._ Sura never considered that a common northern malady could pop up so far to the south. Perhaps cold had less to do with the ailment than the healers had been led to believe? _Luava. She would know what to do._ If Luava were here she'd cure Gran Gran of these bad humors with two waves of her hand.

Sura had never attempted it herself, not since Father had learned of her secret healing lessons with Luava. Now _that_ was quite the little scandal, one that ended with a beating bad enough to break two ribs. An ironic wound, considering it was the art of bone stitching that Luava had been trying to teach her that day, the last of their lessons together.

Sura was desperate to help Gran Gran, only she didn't know how. Even if she did, she wasn't so certain that she could anymore. She worried at a hangnail with her teeth. When she glanced down, she saw the answer that lay before her very nose.

She looked at the side of her forefinger. She'd seen the blood seep from where the knife had cut, she'd even tasted it. She remembered mumbling a brief prayer before returning to the onions. After Gran Gran had seemed satisfied that the wound was nothing to worry about, she hadn't thought of it until now.

Only there was no wound. The surface of the skin was soft and unblemished. She pressed her thumb down but felt no hint of soreness. The cut was gone, as though it had never been made at all. Sura's chin rose high. If she'd done it once, she could do it again.

She cupped Gran Gran's palm between hers. "You've done so much for me," she whispered. "You took me in, fed me, kept me warm, even after seeing… who I really am. If I can help you, by the grace of the spirits, I will.

Sura filled the basin with water and performed her ablutions. She took deep breaths to calm and cleanse herself within. Her concentration could not falter. She slid into an old bending stance, snug and familiar as an old glove. The motions of the water-seeker's pull flooded into her memory as if she'd drilled it just this morning. A fist-sized globule rose from the basin. The hairs on her neck stood up. The feeling was beyond incredible, as though she'd discovered a piece of herself that she thought she had lost. She'd forgotten how beautiful it was, the sight of living water.

With open arms she beckoned the liquid toward herself. She dipped her fingers into the substance until her palms were coated like a pair of taut, fingerless gloves. Sura held her open palms over Gran Gran's chest and emulated the methodical motions she'd seen Luava perform a hundred times over. Luava once said that every person's chi followed its own unique path through the body like a rebellious river. Finding and threading that inner pathway was the founding principle of a healer's art. Without it, no connection could be made.

She thought about what Gran Gran had said earlier that night, how she'd spoken about her own stubbornness, her unwillingness to tug up roots. Gran Gran's own roots must have grown deep indeed. Sura concentrated, seeking out the crimson tree that flourished beneath skin and bone; a living, thriving network of nerves and veins, roots and branches, all of them wound tight around a globe of pulsing light. She placed her palms over that bright spot and held them there. Though her hands never once touched Gran Gran's chest, Sura could feel the gentle pulse of the older woman's heartbeat, as if she was holding life itself in her hands. Perhaps she was, in a way. Even the deepest, darkest roots wither without water.

The liquid upon her hands shined a pale blue light. The connection had been made. She could sense it. By simply guiding her hands above certain spots, Sura could navigate the pathways of Gran Gran's inner chi as easily as if they were streets back home. The swollen joints in her legs and feet was calcified and stiff, telltale signs of an old malady. Sura could be of no help there; the longer an ailment had been left untreated, the more a body's chi had come to to accept it.

Sura sensed a greasiness near to the chest region, a tarry malevolence that clung to the old woman's throat and lungs, constricting her breath ways. _This has to be it._ She swept her palms side to side in a scrubbing motion until the water on her palms began to tingle. The tactile sensation astounded her. It was like she could feel the ailment rub off on her fingers like so many suds of dirtied soap. With each pass of her hand the filmy feeling of sickness began to fade.

In less than a minute the color began to return to Gran Gran's brow and cheeks. The wheezing had stopped, and there would be no more coughing tonight. Though her eyes were still shut, it seemed like she was almost smiling.

Sura returned the liquid to the basin, the sapphire glow fading from the water on her palms. Quietly she excused herself from the room. She felt like skipping on the way back to her own bed, feeling so light she could fly.

She would hold vigil from her own bed, listening for any reemerging coughs. She was already wide awake before all of this excitement, and now she couldn't see herself getting any rest at all.

Five minutes later, she was snoring.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter VI

* * *

The cell was cold and cramped. Walls of polished marble boxed Malik in on all sides, the ceiling being no more than half a foot above his head. The only source of light came from the crack beneath his cell door.

Malik had heard of these cells, but he'd never thought to find himself in one. Designed for rogue benders, each cell had been designed to be utterly waterproof. Thick layers of sand, cork, and wax encased the cell. A bender would have an easier time squeezing liquid from the stones than to draw any moisture from outside. Stockpiling was also futile. The marbled walls absorbed no amount of water, and Malik's meager ration of drinking water was only refilled after he'd drained the previous ration into a bucket, all while the guards watched. It was beyond humiliating.

Malik sat up against the door and listened. He was eager to hear anything. Other than the soft footfalls of the guard patrols the place was a tomb.

Outside, the free citizens of the water tribes would be enjoying everything the new moon celebration had to offer. Malik desperately wished he could be among them. He'd only been in here for two days, but the silence was already driving him kooky. He tried to speak to the guards, but they had never deigned to reply. Malik contemplated his choices during the cruel interminable wait that had become his life. He'd embraced this outcome from the outset, but that didn't free him from the nervousness that he felt.

When the door to his cell swung open with a startling crash, Malik assumed that it was already time. A severe looking guard entered the cell. He wore a fur-lined hood, his face hidden behind a tightly wrapped gray scarf. The other guards wore scarves as well, which had struck Malik as odd from the moment he'd gotten here. It was not _that_ cold down here, compared to the rest of the North, and he didn't see the point of hiding one's identity. Knowing the name of a guard didn't seem like a high priority for anyone who'd been relegated to one of these cells.

The guard pointed toward the wall. Only when Malik's back was flat up against the marble did the guard step back into the hallway, out of sight. He returned a few seconds later to chuck a pair of small stools into the room. The stools were wrought from bone, and they made a terrible racket when they hit the floor. "Sit," he guard said, pointing to the chairs like an owner training their pup.

Malik righted his three-legged stool and sat with his hands upon his knees. He heard the scuff of light footsteps stopping in the doorway. When he finally worked up the nerve, he saw Luava standing there.

It took all of his will to remain in his seat. If he got up, the guard might take it for a sign of aggression, ending their meeting then and there. Malik took pains to remain seated and calm. They could not keep him from smiling at her though, nor from speaking his mind. His fingers dug into his kneecaps, and he took several deep, cleansing breaths.

Luava sat upon the other stool and crossed her legs. She scrutinized him for a few moments, eyes busy with movement. One of her feet would not stop bobbing up and down. "Well, how are you holding up?" she asked, finally.

"All right," Malik said. "I'll feel better once you tell me about Atka."

Luava pursed her lips. "Sad and quiet, not much more to tell than that. She came running to find me after, to tell me what had happened. I could hardly believe it, but then I heard the same story from Dad." She shook her head in amazement. "I didn't think you had it in you. What was the last straw?"

"Atka. I did it to protect her." It was not the complete truth, but nor was it a lie. The guards stood beyond the door to his cell, and who knows what other ears were would know the truth, but not yet, and not here. He leaned in close as caution would allow. "You haven't mentioned my father yet. No one has told me a thing since I was thrown in here. Please, Luava. Is he…?"

"He's alive," Luava said. "Though his wounds were severe. The bones in his shoulders were shattered, and the spear you sent through his chest missed his heart by half an inch. A close call." Her eyes narrowed.

A great weight lifted from Malik's shoulders. It hadn't been his intent to make Atka an orphan, but the risk of death had been quite real. Had the spear through Father's chest proven fatal, Malik's life would have been forfeit as well. But he'd needed to be convincing, and most of all, he'd given Father the perfect excuse he would need to play along.

And Father _would_ play along, if only to prevent losing both of his precious waterbenders, instead of losing just one. "He pushed me too far this time, Luava." He rubbed the spot on his ribcage where he'd been beaten.

Luava spoke in lower tones. "Hardly anyone can believe it. The whole capital is talking about it. People have already started to file in for the trial tonight."

Malik didn't know what to make of the sudden fame. "Make sure to save yourself a seat."

"Oh, I'll be there," Luava said. "Dad, too. He plans to beseech on your behalf."

"He doesn't need to do that," Malik said.

"Oh, shut up, of course he does."

Malik had not forgotten what Anik had told him high above the frozen grove. It didn't sit well to think of his master lending further credence to a farce just because he felt responsible.

"He knows what you've been through at home," Luava said. "We both do. I'd beseech for you too, but Dad won't let me. He says I'd be seen as biased." She threw her hands up into the air. "How could anyone think I'm biased? That's crazy! Isn't that crazy talk?"

Malik blinked. "Uhh…"

"Darn right it is," Luava said. Her anxious foot bobbed at double time. When she noticed him staring at the foot, she uncrossed her legs and pressed her knees together. "So, have you thought about who else you're gonna beseech? Dad said that's the best chance for a lenient sentencing."

"I have," Malik said.

"And?"

"Luava," he said, staring her square in the eyes. "I'm not going to beseech anyone."

"WHAT?" Luava shot up from her seat. A guard stuck his head into the cell and inquired if she was all right, but Luava bowled over his words. "By the spirits, WHY?"

"Because I did it," Malik said. "Whatever punishment the council sees fit to hand down is the punishment I deserve." The last thing he needed was more well-intentioned supporters on his side. That would only increase the chance of holes getting poked through his flimsy story. He already stood upon rotten ice, and was not about to invite anyone else out to join him. Hearing of Sifu Anik's intentions were bad enough, no need to make things even worse.

"But Malik," Luava said, her voice beginning to quaver, "the council could have you killed for this."

"After the week they had? Nah. Everyone feels better after the new moon celebration." He was surprised at his own confidence. "Get to spend a few years traveling the other nations, maybe hang out with the air monks and shave my head. I'll be fine, Luava. Don't worry."

Luava was not convinced. "We'll see. Half a dozen witnesses have already made known their intention to speak against you, including the Elder Slug himself."

"Unnaq," Malik said. He'd expected as much. Father's dealings with Unnaq the Elder went back many years, to mutual gain. Unnaq's primary source of income came from his waterbending factories. He'd years ago seized upon the lucrative concept of extracting sea salt from the oceans, salt that had proven desirable to the alchemists of the Fire Nation. In time Unnaq's trade agreements grew so large it was said he was drawing gold itself from the sea.

The desalinated water Unnaq then sold back to the Water Tribe at a prodigious mark-up. Since purified water was crucial for all manner of rituals, food dishes, and fine works of ice sculpture, Father's civic influences proved useful. That a mere boy such as Malik would dare interfere with Unnaq's business arrangements was enough to rouse the Elder Slug's anger.

Malik waved a dismissive hand. "None of that matters, Luava. I want you to think about Atka, not me. She'll be needing you."

"More than she needs a big brother?"

"No," he admitted. "But that's out of my hands now. I don't know how Father'll treat her after all this, but I'll rest easier if I know you're not far. If it's going to be exile then you're the best one to explain things to her. She's too young to understand."

" _Her?_ Even Idon't understand."

"You will," Malik said. "Soon as I find a place to write from, you'll know everything. Please, Luava. Trust me on this?"

Luava squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. "Fine. I only hope you know the path you're walking."

"I do," he said, and wished he believed it.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter VII

* * *

Sura counted down from ten. She inhaled deep and held it. _This is going to hurt_. On the count of one she peeled the cloth back. Almost at once she knew she'd gone too fast. She pursed her lips to muffle a quick cry. She dropped the tacky cloth into a bucket and scooped a palmful of cool water onto her calf, rinsing off the sticky residue still left behind.

The mixture was primarily water and honey, plus a few drops of lemon juice. Properly portioned, the ingredients formed a paste thick enough to slather with a wooden spoon. Some cloth was then laid on top of the paste, and after a few moments the cloth was peeled back, tearing the paste and a host of unwanted hairs along with it. Sura had never heard of such a method. Women of the water tribe certainly didn't practice it—sugar and honey were too precious to waste on simple things like hygiene.

It had all stemmed from Sura's request to borrow a kitchen knife for shaving purposes. Gran Gran had balked at that idea, opting instead to teach Sura the rather excruciating method she had employed when she was a younger woman.

In time, Sura was certain she'd be grateful. For now though, it was a pain she'd need to get used to, at least until she got her hands on a fresh razor… one that wouldn't also be used chopping onions for dinner.

Gran Gran was busying herself in the kitchen. If there were any lingering effects of her illness, they did not show. In fact, Gran Gran seemed practically aglow this morning. "Eat up," she said, pointing to a pile of re-heated dumplings on the kitchen countertop. "That batch won't make the trip. Whatever doesn't get scarfed down is being left behind." The table they'd eaten on last night had become lost beneath a jumble of pots and jars, each one labeled and tied up with string. There were a dozen different herbs and spices, cooking oils in thin-necked vials, painted pots of honeycomb stoppered up with huge corks.

"Left behind?" Sura asked.

Gran Gran's wrinkled face stretched into a wry grin. "As I said. So eat up, and eat hearty. You'll need your strength. I'm a large, gouty woman, and the carts can't get to Xiao Gang by themselves."

Sura couldn't contain her surprise. She'd heard a fair bit of Xiao Gang from Weiwei. This wasn't just some fishing grotto, but a fully fledged village of decent size. It wasn't even that far, to hear him speak of it. From there Sura could reestablish her correspondence with Luava back home. She would need a lot of paper, a lot of ink. There was so much to tell.

She was confused, though. Only last night Gran Gran had been talking about the memories of this place, how no one had been able to talk her out of leaving. At the time she sounded as if she might remain here until the end of her days. "You really mean it?" she asked. "Come with you? Leave all of this?"

"Oh yes." The grin on Gran Gran's face was infections. "This family could use another pair of hands in the kitchen, and you've made quite the impression on my little Sprig. And I still haven't seen you play that erhu since you got here. Would I be correct in guessing you don't know how to play?"

"Yes, ma'am," Sura said, reddening.

"Would you like to know how?" Gran Gran wiggled her chubby digits. "These may be fat as summer sausages now, but in my youth these fingers could make the strings sing."

"Oh, Gran Gran, yes! You have no idea how much this means to me." She rushed into a wide-armed hug. "Only…"

"What's on your mind, my girl?" Gran Gran asked.

Sura paused, thinking carefully on how to ask. "After what you said at dinner, this all seems so sudden. What changed your mind?"

Gran Gran did not hesitate a moment. "You did."

"Me?" She did not understood.

"I know what you did last night, child," Gran Gran said. "Thought you could sneak out that easily?"

Sura's face filled with red. "Forgive my intrusion."

"Forgive you?" Gran Gran held a hand to her heart. "Sweet child, when it comes to self-respect you might just be hopeless. Forgive you for what? Opening my rheumy eyes to the truth? For saving my _life_? If you had never wandered into our forest, that cough would have been the end of me. I know that now. We have no medicines here, not since the last group of bandits came looking for plunder. If this sickness had not felled me, the next one would have, and then who would tend to my little Sprig?" Tears welled in her eyes, but did not fall.

"Oh I know he's a resourceful boy," she said. "But even if my ailing health wasn't an issue, I still despair for him. He's young, bright, and all alone… a terrible mix. He needs a chance to grow around kids his own age."

Sura thought of her sister. _She'd be seven by now, nearly eight._ Leaving her behind was the one wound that would not heal. The concept of taking Weiwei under wing scared Sura. But at the same time, it exhilarated her. Besides, Atka had Luava to look after her. More than that, Atka still had a tribe.

 _And what about my tribe?_ Sura thought of the strangers who had plucked her from the forest, the strangers who had become like family to her, and who she'd shared her deepest secrets with. Who did she have if not them?

Gran Gran looked hopeful, perhaps even a little pensive. "It's a lot to digest, I know. I'm sure you'll have questions."

"Just one," Sura said. "When do we leave?"


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter VIII

* * *

Malik couldn't have dreamed up a better farce. The trial was a joke. Things had moved quick, particularly since he offered no tesimony on his behalf and asked no cross-questions to the witnesses. Instead, as each person took his turn relaying what he had seen that night, Malik was busy admiring the interior of the Council Hall. The hall held a scale and opulence unmatched among the tribe's more public structures, dwarfed only by those palatial houses belonging to the North's oldest, most powerful families. The roof of the hall boasted a massive dome that chronicled in elegant murals the history of the Water Tribe.

Directly beneath the dome stood a gargantuan sculpture of Kya. A thousand night pearls lit the fallen avatar's massive, frigid form. The statue stood with one leg in front of the other, arms upraised in the stance of balance.

The triarchy sat in judgement beneath Kya's stern gaze. The three elders may have been close in age, falling somewhere between their fifties and sixties. They wore matching blue robes of elaborate silk trimmed in vair, but there the similarities ended.

The judge chieftain sat in the center, a stern elder whose braided beard dangled almost to the floor. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, attentive to every word spoken in his court.

To his left sat a squat barrel of a man whose double chin overflowed his collar. When he yawned—and yawn often he did—his jowls quivered like gelatin. His expression was petulant, as if he'd already made up his mind and was eager to wrap this up.

To the judge chieftain's right was a thin spindle of a man; his face was a skull of sallow skin and sunken eyes, one of which was as white as milk. He wore a whisper of a mustache, so thin he might have might drawn it on himself. He leaned against the armrest of his driftwood chair. Of the three, the mustachioed judge seemed less interested in the proceedings than he did watching Malik. He did so with a strange look in his good eye, a look that unsettled Malik.

Six separate witnesses took the dais to testify against him. Their combined word was suitably damning. Most testified more toward the vandalism they'd seen on the banquet table, the gouged out divots that they say Malik had surely caused.

Others, like Unnaq the Elder, were more dramatic. Unnaq wept as he recounted the sorrowful details, casting Father in a sanctified light while dragging Malik's name through the mud, calling him little more than a troublemaker and constant thorn in his father's side. At one point a young girl had shouted out from the high chamber seats. "LIAR," the girl had yelled. The sounds of worried shushing had followed, and Malik had to bite the insides of his cheeks to stifle a grin.

Sifu Anik wasted no breath in beseeching on Malik's behalf when the time came to present his side of events. Anik spoke of a bright-eyed youth who had cracked under years of incessant abuse at the hand of a spiteful parent. Anik urged the council to exercise mercy, pointing to Malik's bruised face as just the latest example of abuse. It was the only moment of the trial where Malik felt bashful.

Some of those in the audience didn't seem to appreciate Anik's full-throated defense, judging by the murmurs and jeers that echoed down from the upper chambers.

When Anik had said his peace, the judges turned their attention toward the accused. "Malik, son of Tartok," said the judge chieftain. "You may rise."

The chains that linked Malik to the floor had seized up in the frost, and he had to give them a sharp tug before he could rise. The chains were intentionally short, forcing him to stoop low before the mighty dais like a supplicant.

The chief judge led the questioning. "You stand accused of a grave assault upon your kin. Six separate witnesses have attested to either seeing or hearing this attack as it was still in progress. All six are men of reputation. In light of their testimony, have you anything to say for yourself?"

"No," Malik said. "Everything they said was true."

The upper chambers began to murmur and stir. Court guards knocked their staves upon the ground in a general call to order.

The chief judge leaned forward. "Then you admit it?"

"I do."

"And during this wanton attack, were you or were you not aware of the strictures that forbid bending against your kin?"

Malik nodded once. "As aware then as I am now." He raised his head high, so all in attendance could see the plum shade of his eye, still swollen shut from Father's backhand. "I couldn't suffer the pain any longer. It had to be done." He turned his face to the crowd. "I only wish I'd done it sooner."

The high gallery erupted. A cacophony of shouts and insults were hurled his way, along with a few snowballs that fell just short, bursting at the base of the prisoner's dais. The triarchy exchanged glances. The fat one made no effort to keep his voice low. "The urchin has done our job for us," he said, batting his hand dismissively. "Let's be done with this."

Malik stood as tall as the fetters would allow, soaking it all in. It was a strangely righteous feeling to stand here like this, knowing he'd made the right choice. It took no imagination at all to picture little Atka standing here instead, crying, confused, shackled to the floor like some lowly criminal.

The deliberations were short. A murmur of anticipation swept through the chambers when the judge chieftain ordered all to rise. "Malik, son of Tartok," he said. "You have been named guilty in the eyes of the tribe; guilty of a vile assault upon your own kin, guilty of warping the blessings of sacred Ocean and Moon toward petty familial violence, guilty of dishonoring the sacred balance upon which the Water Tribes are built. Malik, son of Tartok, it is the judgment of this council that you banish yourself from these lands."

A general cheer began to erupt in the chamber until the elder called once more for silence. "At dawn, you will vacate from these lands for no less than one hundred cycles. Failure to abide by the fullness of this sentence carries weight of death. Heed you this sentence, Malik, son of Tartok?"

"I heed," Malik said. Only now he wasn't so sure. The words had tumbled out, as though someone else had spoken them. It was done. Atka was safe. So why did he feel so numb?

The triarchy rose and spoke in unison. "So speaks the council, so is it ordered."

 _A hundred lunar cycles._ The number hadn't sounded so large at first, but as the guards led Malik back to his cell he found himself counting out his steps one by one. It was a sobering effect; numbers always seemed bigger once they were unpackaged. Every fall of the foot counted as a month, one passage of the moon. When he reached one hundred, he started over _._ The number rolled over and over in his head. _One hundred cycles. Twenty-eight hundred days. Seven years and some change._

Seven years. A lifetime for little Atka.

Malik did not sleep that night. His thoughts never strayed far from his sister. By the time he could return she would be a woman. She could even be betrothed by then. He knew he could trust Luava to see that she came out all right, and he was already looking forward to the day he'd see his little Atka all grown up.

But what about him? A lot could happen in seven years. Would she recognize him upon his return?

Then again, would he?


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter IX

* * *

Weiwei bounced on Gran Gran's knee. He'd worn the same smug expression since they'd left the cabbage co-op. It had been a happy accident finding the place. A few poor navigational choices had sent them cutting through some poor farmer's freshly planted crop. The farmer got a good week's worth of labor out of her and Weiwei in recompense. Their days were spent in the fields, days spent tilling and irrigating, meanwhile Gran Gran stewed up her famous dumplings along with some eggs provided by the farmer. The two of them hit it off famously, so well in fact that the farmer let them purchase an old bullgoat to tug the cart along. Weiwei had come to call the bullgoat Jangle on account of the tiny brass bells that hung from his horns to give fair warning of the ornery beast's approach.

Sura tugged and strained against Jangle's reins. Mud squished up around her clogs as she struggled to get him to move. She'd have welcomed any hint of energy from the darn thing. Finally she threw her hands up in the air. "Weiwei, come get your natty old goat to budge."

"She'll never do what you want if you keep calling her names," Weiwei chided. He slipped off the side of Gran Gran's lap and went to the front of the cart. Leaning forward, he began to coo in Jangle's ear. "Who's a wubby? That's wight, wittle wumpkins!"

Sura wrinkled her nose. "You're gonna make me barf if you keep it up. Besides, animals don't listen like that."

Weiwei ignored the jibe and continued talking nonsense to the bullgoat. Jangle soon stirred, his head whipping from side to side like he was shaking off the sleep. The bells in his horns clattered noisily. He gave a gruff bleat and stomped his front hoof into the soft mud. Soon they were moving again. Sura stood off at the side of the road, her mouth ajar in disbelief.

She whistled for Oki, who promptly swooped in to perch upon her shoulder. "And woo?" she asked with puckered lips. "Is woo a wittle wufflin who can wisten?"

Oki ruffled his feathers and flapped off without as much as a mewl or chirp. He flew some five hundred feet toward a venerable elm that grew beside the road, disappearing into the greenery. "Ugh," she said, when she'd seen the soggy present he'd left on her shoulder. "Guess not."

The lonesome tree grew astride the road, painting the area in cool shade. Sura saw movement beneath the tree as they drew closer. _Hopefully more nervous travelers,_ she hoped. Talk of war was on everyone's lips, and the reasons for risking travel grew thinner with each passing day. They were vulnerable out here. Bandits, murderers, wild things; Sura would have preferred to avoid the roads altogether, but with Gran Gran's swollen joints a well-traveled road had been necessary. Sura's constant suspicion was exhausting, but she knew she wouldn't feel safe until they'd made it to Xiao Gang.

She had Weiwei stop the cart fifty yards from the tree's outstretched shadow. The road under the elm hadn't been hit by sunlight since the morning rains, and everywhere along the path lay horseshoe-shaped ponds and muddy ruts deep enough to snap a wheel in half.

Shadows stirred from behind the gnarled trunk, and as they drew near they took the shapes of men Sura knew. She stood beside Weiwei and clutched briefly at his shoulder. "Better fetch that sling of yours," she whispered.

Two men stopped in the center of the road, one short and stick thin, the other portly, bald, and tall. Two other men dropped down from their hiding places amongst the upper branches once it was obvious the cart wouldn't be rolling right under their tree. All four men brandished some form of crude weaponry; branches fashioned into mean cudgels, sharpened sticks, and a rusty knife with a broken tip.

The portly leader tossed the knife from one hand to the other. He took a wide stance across the road, a foot dug into either rut. He grinned toward the cart with a mouth full of rotten teeth. When he peered up at Gran Gran, he cackled. "What're you two up to? Dressing up that shriveled old sow?"

Weiwei hopped down from the back of the cart and quickly brushed the mud from his knees. He filled his sling with a wet stone he found on the road. With a flick of his wrist, he began to spin it overhead. "You leave us alone," he shouted, his voice cracking.

The fat bandit laughed louder. The others soon joined him, slapping at knees or holding each other by the shoulder as they caught their breath, as if the sight of Weiwei's sling was the most hilarious thing they had ever seen.

"Now, now," cautioned the stick-thin bandit with cobwebs for hair. "Don't make this harder on your granny, little one. We want the cart and whatever's in it. We'll take that bullgoat too. A bit old and stringy, but meat is meat."

Sura felt the leader's eyes on her. He devoured her top to bottom with his lecherous gaze. "And as for you," he said, pointing the rusty knife squarely at her. "What luck to see your thieving little face again. Thought the forest would've claimed you for sure." He licked his lips. "Cleaned up a bit since our last meeting, I see? All's the better. You come along too, and these two needn't get hurt."

"Look at that blue coat of hers," added the thin man. "Yum, that cocoa skin. Water tribe, I'm certain of it." He made a circle with his fingers and prodded his stick between them. "You ever tasted water tribe, Lao?"

"Can't say I have," replied the portly one. "Tell me pretty one," he said, and began to sing, " _does your hair down there smell o' salty sea air?_ "

Gran Gran rose at once, her mittened palms raised in peace. "My good men, I'm sure she meant no disrespect. If it's repayment of food you seek, allow me to…"

"Shut your fat face." The portly leader spat. "We'll do the talk—OWW" He bowled over and pressed a palm to the side of his face. Blood trickled out between his fingers. "You little rat!"

"Don't talk to ladies like that," Weiwei said, all puffed up. The empty sling dangled from his clenched fist.

"Brave boy, are ya? Well, let's see." The thin one stomped forward, trudging through the mud with purposeful menace. "Do it again," he taunted, slapping his chest. "Knock me flat and you win. Otherwise I'm snapping your scrawny neck."

Sura could sense Weiwei's mounting fear. She pressed a hand to his shoulder and squeezed some reassurance into him. "You heard the man, Weiwei. Give him what he wants."

Weiwei thumbed another pebble from his muddy palm into the sling. When the thin fellow saw this, he began to double his pace. But the boy was quicker, and the sling had already become a blurred oval orbiting his hand. With a grunt and a heave, Weiwei let fly.

The stone flew fast, almost too fast for Sura to send a little something of her own along with it. The impact was sudden and violent, not unlike the harsh cracking of bone. The creep's expression seemed to fluctuate between pain and sheer surprise as he fell backwards. He sat up and strained to speak, but the breath had been knocked from his lungs. Shards of broken ice glittered on the man's waist, shattered remnants of the frozen fist she'd sent along with Weiwei's muddy pebble.

Farther back in the road, the two tree dwellers slowed their pace out of sheer surprise, but only for a moment. Their faces devolved into masks of fury, and they raised their cudgels. Gran Gran cursed the bandits for cowards, hurling insults from her high vantage like they were weapons. Jangle grew spooked and began to struggle against his harness.

The fat one had recovered by then, wiping blood from the gash on his brow with the back of his hand. His right eye was already swelling shut, but his left had found Weiwei, and it smoldered with hate. "I'll kill you, boy," he said, "kill you slow."

Weiwei, who only moment's ago was beaming at Sura with a look of triumph, was now pressed against her leg, quivering. The sling dangled loose in his hand, forgotten. "What do we do?" he quailed, as the fat man bore down upon him.

His answer came in a blur of white, a confetti of plummeting leaves and twigs. Oki dove upon the fat man with blistering ferocity, his talons raking ribbons of red flesh from the man's bare scalp. Up and down he went, over and over, mercilessly drawing blood from his prey with every arcing swoop. The fat man howled in pain and desperately swung his rusty blade above his head. He may as well have tossed his weapon into the mud at his feet for all the good it did him; Oki outdistanced every wild swing with an ease that bordered on arrogance. He began to shriek and writhe, all his hateful threats toward Weiwei were forgotten.

Sura grabbed Weiwei by the scruff and tugged him back behind her. She kicked off her clogs and dug her bare feet into the nearest soggy puddle of rainwater. Cool mud tickled her arches and squished up between every toe. Withdrawing moisture from the mud was trivial in the face of such intensity. Sifu Anik would have been proud. Intensity had always been a foundation of his curriculum. Now Sura knew why. The mud around her feet hardened like mason's mortar, and her legs held fast. She could no longer move.

Neither could the fat man. His fur-lined boots had all but disappeared into the hardened morass. He dropped his knife at once and reached down to his ankles. His round face went beet red as he tried to tug himself free. Oki seemed wise to the bandit's sinking predicament, redirecting his fearsome ire upon the fat man's backside.

 _Two to go._ They were nearly upon her now, snarling and spitting their rage. Sura ignored their dramatic faces and focused upon their footwork. She pinched at the air, raising and lowered her flattened hands like she was turning down the sheets of a bed. The thin layer of water she'd drawn from the mud began to clump and congeal upon the stretch of road between her and the two incoming bandits. With a boreal breath Sura froze the surface solid. The thugs fell forward, slid a bit, and skidded face-first into the mud.

The thin one had regained his voice, ragged and wheezy as it was. "You idiot. You said Laogai had rounded up all the benders!" He stood and steadied himself a moment, taking time enough to snap his sharp stick over a knee. He then fled north across the open field. The tree dwellers wiped the mudmasks from their faces and ran after him, their cudgels tossed aside and forgotten.

By then the fat man had tugged himself free and began to hop-skip after his fleeing band. He looked rather absurd with his single muddy boot and his bloodied scalp. "I said all the _earthbenders_." A petulant whine had crept into his voice that was not there before. "And how was I supposed to know she could do that? _You're_ the water tribe expert."

"Oh shut up," sniped the thin man.

Sura watched them flee from sight, so giddy she started to laugh. She looked down at her sunken feet, all snug and secure in ankle-deep mud. She leaned forward until her bosom jutted out and her calves started to complain. _Is this what it feels like to be an earthbender?_ She closed her eyes and imagined she were some mermish figurehead upon a swift ship's bow.

When she opened them again, Weiwei was gawking at her like a freshly bludgeoned fish. His wide eyes threatened to pop from his oversize head. "You never told me you're a…" He turned toward Gran Gran, stammering. "She's a…"

"She's a girl with secrets, Weiwei. And if you're going to be sharing her company, you'd be smart to keep them." She imparted a grateful nod toward Sura before looking off to the North, where the sky had darkened. "Shall we continue on, then? Those clouds look ominous."

Sura had been watching those clouds all morning. It would be a torrent for certain, and taking shelter beneath this solitary tree was out of the question. With no known hamlets or farms in either direction, she was not surprised to see a forlorn look on both Weiwei and Gran Gran's faces. Sure, they'd roughed it out in the middle of a desolate forest, but there'd always been the windbreak of the trees and the comfort of a roof overhead.

Sura couldn't give them that… but she could do the next best thing. Even after what they'd just seen, they didn't seem to realize they'd brought along a human parasol.

Sura climbed up to the front of the cart and stood with her back to Jangle. She looked at Gran Gran and Weiwei with her fists upon her hips. "Cheer up," she said. "It's only a little rain."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter X

* * *

The Great Harbor was lost beneath an impenetrable fog. Malik shuffled along the slick stones as fast as the fetters would allow. Twice already he'd slipped and fallen face-first, but the pair of guards who walked alongside him only prodded him with the toes of their boots.

The guards rarely deigned to look at him, but when they did they wore the same mask of contempt that he'd seen on countless other faces throughout the trial. It was odd to be so despised by complete strangers. It was one of the few things Malik was certain he wouldn't miss.

The peal of a brass bell skipped across the water. Though Malik couldn't see it through the curtain of brume, the _Tao_ would be moored at the farthest jetty. The _Tao_ was a familiar sight in the Northern port throughout the year, and was no stranger to the transport of prisoners and exiles.

A pair of cloaked figures stood near the water's edge, one of them a head taller than the other. Both wore color-sapped cloaks that commingled with the gray mists. They would look like statues but for the fog of their breath. The taller one stirred. "A moment with the prisoner?"

"Shove off, old man." The left guard put a hand on the rawhide handle of his jawbone club. "You've got no business with such as him. Boy's a kin-killer in training." He prodded Malik in the tummy with the head of his club. Noxious breath seeped through his clenched teeth like effluvium from a sewer grate.

"Whatever damage that boy did to his father he learned from me." Steam billowed from Anik's flared nostrils. He tugged back his hood. "And since the two of you are no kin of mine, I would suggest holding your tongues in the presence of your betters." He whipped a hand through the air. He held it up for the guards to see the icicles that had grown from the tips of his fingers, curved and cruel and sharp.

The guards exchanged doubtful glances. Benders they might have been, but they also didn't seem stupid. "Very well," said one of the guards. "But be quick about it. _"_ The two men withdrew to the main pier, hands still clutched tight to their jawbone clubs.

Malik bowed to Anik with fist pressed to open palm. "Thank you, Sifu. You honored me with what you said yesterday."

"I meant every word. They may say I had some share of the blame in shaping you into such a ruthless little waterbender. Let them, I shall wear that blame with honor. I am only disappointed that you leave with so much of your training left unfinished." Anik reached within the folds of his robe and produced a long, narrow sack of cloth tied up with red ribbon. "While this is no substitute, it is all I can offer. Please accept it."

Malik hefted the object in his hands. "It's light," he said. He untied the lace ribbon and withdrew an exquisite erhu and accompanying bowstring. "Oh, Sifu. It's beautiful." The neck was wrought from a single piece of carved whalebone with hollowed turtle shell for the body.

Malik knew he could not take accept it. "I'm not worthy of such gifts, master. Besides, I don't even know how to play." He tried to hand it back to his master.

"Then find someone willing to teach you," Anik said, gently but firmly pushing the instrument back toward his former pupil. "You will be in the Earth Kingdom for some time. The least you can do is learn their music. I want to hear this instrument sing when you return."

"You will," Malik said. "And by the time I return, maybe things'll be different."

Anik pursed his lips. "Perhaps. But cold sustains, and the North is very cold. Change will not come easy without a thawing."

Luava had pulled down her hood. Her eyes were puffy and red, her lips pressed into a thin little line. She held out her hand and let a necklace dangle from her forefinger. A leather cord looped through the silvered stopper of a teardrop phial. "There's this, too," she said. "It's not much, I know. Carnival prize that I won it during the festival, before I'd heard what happened. And when I won it I'd thought of you, so…"

Malik took the phial and held it up. "It's gorgeous," he said. "Help me put it on?"

After she'd fastened it, Luava spun him by the shoulders and threw him into a bear hug. She squeezed so tight Malik worried his ribs might bruise all over again.

"Oof." He squeezed her back in retaliation, his arms wrapping around her like a wooden vice until she yelped her surrender. When they separated, her face was flushed. He gave her an affectionate kiss upon the cheek. "Keep care of Atka while I'm gone?"

"I will," Luava said. "You keep care of yourself, too."

Her gaze seemed to frost over. She stared off to some far point in space, as though she'd come at last to see the hard truths laid bare, and could not bear to look, and sought for solace in the immutable gray distance. _She thinks this is the end for us._

"I'll find a way to write," he said. "I promise I will." He could see his resonated, and so he went on. "Pen pals! Soon as I end up somewhere decent and civilized, I'll tell you everything about everything. And you can write back, and we can talk just like always, only… only the conversations will take a whole lot longer. We're not gonna become strangers, Luava. We'll make this work."

"All right," Luava said. "Let's give it a shot." She relented with a smirk.

It was time. He gave her one last hug, one last peck upon the cheek. He was in the midst of a reverent bow when he heard his sister.

"Let GO of me!" Atka screamed. She stood at the head of the pier, struggling against the grip of the two guardsmen. She kicked one in the shin before spinning out and away from the other's loosened grip. Atka ran as fast as her little legs would carry her, but the guards were gaining fast.

Anik took two steps forward and swept his hand lazily. A pair of mighty waves dashed upon the jetty from either side, sending a shower of water down behind Atka. The two guards stood drenched in frigid water and strands of seaweed. Anik sent a creeping frost across the planks until the surface beneath the guards' feet had gone slick as glass. Anik's mouth twisted into a wicked grin, as if he was hoping for the guards to make a move. They wisely decided to withdraw a safe distance to focus on wringing out their drenched parkas and plucking the kelp strands from their collars.

Malik dropped to a knee. His sister charged into him at such speed that she nearly bowled over him.

"Father didn't want me to come," Atka said, gasping to catch her breath. "He told me to just forget all about you." Atka sniffled and wiped the moisture from under her nose. She took a moment to catch her breath. "He's so stupid! I don't care what he says anymore."

Malik cupped her cheek with his palm. "I should've figured nothing would stop you _._ I heard the ruckus you made during the trial. I'm glad you didn't get in hot water for it."

"Rash is what that was," Sifu Anik sniped, toward Atka. "A foolish thing to do, young one."

"He _was_ lying, though." Atka crossed her arms and scowled at Anik. "Unnaq's nothing but a crusty blubber-lump."

"He is," Malik said. He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, lingering long enough to whisper. "But sis, don't forget the promise we made. Remember what I told you, okay?"

"Right." She stuck out her lower lip, bashful. Her voice dropped a register and she whispered. "Yeah, that could've been bad, huh?"

"Yep," he said. "Pretty bad."

Atka bowed her head until her chin touched her chest. "I can't do anything right, can I? Even when I try to help, things only get worse. All this is because of me." She heaved a lungful of anguished air. "I'm never gonna waterbend again."

"You didn't know you could!" He put a crooked finger under her chin and gently coaxed her head up. " None of us knew. And I'm not about to let three old fishbats send you away for something you didn't know. The laws were set long ago, and a price has to be paid. I'm glad to pay it… for both our sakes." Malik looked over his shoulder, out toward the southern horizon. "I need to do this, Atka. I _want_ to do this."

Atka didn't understand. "You _want_ to leave?"

"No. Of course not. But you saw what Father did. What he was about to do. I can't live there anymore." He squeezed her shoulders gently. "It'll be better for you. You never disappointed him the way I did. You're exactly what he expects from a daughter. You're brave, strong, you did what you thought was right, and that makes me proud. Someday, it'll make him proud, too." He drew her into a tight hug and held her there.

"Now, don't get it into your head that this is forever, okay? It's not. I'm coming home one day," Malik said. "And until I do, I need you to be strong. For our family. It's what Mom would want." He blotted the tears on her cheeks with his mitten. "You think you can do that until I return, sis?"

"I don't know," Atka said. "I think so."

Malik popped the stopper on the phial Luava had given him, holding it up between them. "Well, I'm certain of it. So certain in fact that I don't think you'll be needing these 'til I get back." With a wave he drew the salty streaks from her face. Little droplets floated toward him like a stringless pearl necklace, filling the phial to the brim with the last of her tears. "Better let me hold onto them for now."

He knew he'd prolonged this long enough. Dropping to a knee, he kissed his sister once upon the forehead. "Time to go."

"Okay," Atka said, meekly.

By the time Malik shuffled onto the _Tao,_ the three most important people in his life had faded into the mists. There was nothing else to see here. Malik found the meager hammock he'd been afforded by the unfriendly crew. To them he had no name other than 'that boy from the water tribe'. He fell down upon it and stared at the wooden railing, thinking upon everything he'd given up.

The wind grew more generous when they'd reached the open sea. The going was swifter than expected, but intimidating, too. Autumn oceans were notorious for their fickle nature and wild storms. Winds this strong could turn nasty at the drop of a hat. Unless food was being served, Malik stuck to his hammock and did not move. Thanks to some shrewd navigation, no squalls or storms fell directly upon the _Tao,_ nothing too severe at least.

On the third day a crewman up top hearkened to land. Malik roused himself to witness the green coastlines and monolithic cliffs of his new home. He squinted against the sunlight and allowed his watery eyes adjust. The world seemed somehow brighter here, and the sights he beheld stirred up a sense of awe he'd not felt since he was still new to this world.

The coastlines stretched forever in either direction. Distant mountain ranges sprouted far as the eye could see, majestic crags of such height that the North's highest peak seemed more like a snowdrift in comparison. Between the mighty mountain ranges lay vast swaths of land drowned in green.

One of the friendlier sailors, a sea dog named Po, offered to row Malik toward the nearest village. Po had been a decent traveling mate. While most of the crew had treated him like an unwanted child, or worse, a waste of valuable cargo space, Po was different. The sailor did not consider himself a smart man, but nonetheless he was nonetheless an avid reader, and the chance of dabbling among different cultures had always appealed to him, even from a young age. Po spoke fondly of the water tribes, both north and south. It gave him perspective, or so he said.

Malik inquired about whether Po might deliver an occasional letter to the North. The jolly sailor could not have been more eager to accept. He gushed for ages about his far-flung romances, each one tinged with the same saccharine loss. "Ah, to feel young love again," Po mused. "Count yourself lucky, my boy."

He chose not to correct the sailor. When the longboat crunched against the sandy shores of the Earth Kingdrom, he disembarked said his goodbyes to Po. He stood there a while and watched as the longboat dwindled down to nothing. His life was of his own making now, his and no one else's. It was a terrifying concept. He stood there for who knows how long. Calm waves foamed about his ankles. Waves whispered in his ear. His thoughts found their way back to an old bit of air nomad wisdom he'd once stumbled upon in the Northern archives. The air nomads believed that a person who had reached their lowest point was open to the greatest of change. He could let his guard down here, be whatever he chose, _whoever_ he chose. If there was ever going to be a right moment to make that leap, this was that moment.

So she chose to stop, do away with the tiresome charade, unravel the lies she'd tangled herself up in, the lies she'd told to keep herself safe. Safe from whom? Her classmates? Her father? Who was there left to hide from? No one but herself.

She was done with hiding, tired of playing a role in life that she'd never been meant to play. If she'd put this off any longer she might've even begun to believe the voices in her head, the ones still trying to convince her _she'd_ ever been a _he_ to begin with.

Ten thousand questions flooded her mind, enough to make her feel woozy. There were no instructions for this, no experienced adults with advice to offer. For all she knew, she was the only person like this in the whole world. Where was a girl like her to start?

Her wooden sandals were starting to chafe, so she kicked them from her feet. They landed on the water's surface with a muted slap. She dug her heels in, felt her naked feet sink deep into the warm, wet sand. She liked the way it squished between her toes. She watched her old sandals float atop the waves and bound over the foam like a pair of toy boats. When eventually the undertow gobbled them up, she looked down at the rest of the men's clothes she wore.

A widowed seamstress happened to live on the village outskirts. She convinced the older lady that a 'girlfriend' of hers was in need of new clothes, a friend with conveniently similar measurements. As it turned out, the lie wasn't really needed—the ailing seamstress seemed glad to work on anything other than tattered sails and frayed fishnets.

The garments ended up costing a quarter of her stipend, and they weren't even the most gorgeous thing to look at. She didn't care. Nicer attire could come later. What mattered was that she was wearing the clothes she'd always intended to wear. It was high time that she embraced that fact. She could no longer live without them. Now she just needed to learn how to live _in_ them.

Her money dwindled further in the purchasing of a decent razor. Even here in the Earth Kingdom steel did not come cheap. The coin in her pouch didn't much concern her, though; she was certain she'd find some honest work sooner or later, and in order to do that, she would need to be both passable _and_ presentable.

She retreated a ways down the coastline to a lonely estuary, far from any prying eyes. There she went about trimming her legs for the first time. She'd asked Luava a hundred questions about the practice, but had never dared to try it herself. _If only Father could see me now,_ she mused. The corners of her mouth turned upward. Each scrape of the razor felt like fresh rebellion.

Things didn't go perfectly, but she took care enough to avoid cutting herself more than once. It felt strangely sexy to slide the razor down her skin, to feel the silkiness left in its wake. She ran a palm up and down her calf, marveling at her own handiwork. A cool breeze gave her tingles, and her bare skin prickled over with tiny bumps.

The tide had risen by a foot by the time she returned to the open shore. She found a round rock of decent size. She lay it gently atop the pile of folded clothes, the ones she wouldn't be needing anymore. Wrapping the clothes around the rock, she cinched it tight with her old belt rope. She hefted the bundle up to her shoulder and, with a grunt and heave, chucked it into the sea.

She sat there on the shoreline until the sun had gone down. Sunsets were a seasonal thing in the North, but here it was apparently a common occurrence. She wondered if she'd get sick of it. She listened to the call of distant birds, felt the salty air upon her skin, tasted it on her lips. Cool water tugged at her ankles as though the sea was begging her to bathe and be renewed. In a way it was true. She'd been reborn upon these shores. She could no longer see a future for that other life, the one she'd left behind in the ship's wake. Here she would make a new life, and a new life deserved a new name.

 _A new life..._


End file.
